A Narrow Fellow In The Grass Occasionally

A Precious, Mouldering Pleasure 't Is To Meet An Antique Book In Just The Dress His Century Wore; A Privilege, I Think, His Venerable Hand To Take, And Warming In Our Own, A Passage Back, Or Two, To Make To Times When He Was Young. His Quaint Opinions To Inspect, His Knowledge To Unfold On What Concerns Our Mutual Mind, The Literature Of Old.

Some Arrows Slay But Whom They Strike - But This Slew All But Him - Who So Appareled His Escape - Too Trackless For A Tomb

Good Times Are Always Mutual; That Is What Makes Good Times.

The Brain Is Just The Weight Of God-- For--heft Them--pound For Pound-- And They Will Differ--if They Do-- As Syllable From Sound

I Have An Appetite For Silence.