She Stood Breast-high Amid The Corn Clasp'd

My Brain Is Dull, My Sight Is Foul, I Cannot Write A Verse, Or Read-- Then, Pallas, Take Away Thine Owl, And Let Us Have A Lark Instead.

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

And Ye, Who Have Met With Adversity's Blast, And Been Bow'd To The Earth By Its Fury; To Whom The Twelve Months, That Have Recently Pass'd Were As Harsh As A Prejudiced Jury - Still, Fill To The Future! And Join In Our Chime, The Regrets Of Remembrance To Cozen, And Having Obtained A New Trial Of Time, Shout In Hopes Of A Kindlier Dozen.

Dear Bells! How Sweet The Sound Of Village Bells When On The Undulating Air They Swim!

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright And Yellow, Hard And Cold!