Bells Are Musics Laughter.

A Man That's Fond Precociously Of Stirring , :;:; Must Be A Spoon.

No Blessed Leisure For Love Or Hope, But Only Time For Grief.

With Fingers Weary And Worn, With Eyelids Heavy And Red, A Woman Sat In Unwomanly Rags, Plying Her Needle And Thread.

Experience Enables Me To Depose To The Comfort And Blessing That Literature Can Prove In Seasons Of Sickness And Sorrow.

My Tears Must Stop, For Every Drop Hinders Needle And Thread.