Wit Is The Clash And Reconcilement Of

There Seems A Life In Hair, Though It Be Dead.

With Spots Of Sunny Openings, And With Nooks To Lie And Read In, Sloping Into Brooks.

There Is No Greater Mistake In The World Than The Looking Upon Every Sort Of Nonsense As Want Of Sense.

The Perfection Of Conversational Intercourse Is When The Breeding Of High Life Is Animated By The Fervor Of Genius.

Those Who Have Lost An Infant Are Never, In A Way, Without An Infant.