Mirth Is The Mail Of Anguish --

I Had No Monarch In My Life, And Cannot Rule Myself; And When I Try To Organize, My Little Force Explodes And Leaves Me Bare And Charred.

Remorse Is Cureless--the Disease Not Even God--can Heal-- For 'tis His Institution--and The Adequate Of Hell

Love Is Anterior To Life, Posterior To Death, Initial Of Creation, And The Exponent Of Breath.

How Very Sad It Is To Have A Confiding Nature, One's Hopes And Feelings Are Quite At The Mercy Of All Who Come Along; And How Very Desirable To Be A Stolid Individual, Whose Hopes And Aspirations Are Safe In One's Waistcoat Pocket, And That A Pocket Indeed, And One Not To Be Picked!

A Soft Sea Washed Around The House A Sea Of Summer Air And Rose And Fell The Magic Planks That Sailed Without A Care — For Captain Was The Butterfly For Helmsman Was The Bee And An Entire Universe For The Delighted Crew.