The One Red Leaf, The Last Of

All Nature Seems At Work. Slugs Leave Their Lair The Bees Are Stirring, Birds Are On The Wing, And Winter Slumbering In The Open Air, Wears On His Smiling Face A Dream Of Spring.

In Koln, A Town Of Monks And Bones, And Pavement Fang'd With Murderous Stones, And Rags And Hags, And Hideous Wenches, I Counted Two-and-seventy Stenches, All Well Defined, And Several Stinks! Ye Nymphs That Reign O'er Sewers And Sinks, The River Rhine, It Is Well Known, Doth Wash Your City Of Cologne; But Tell Me, Nymphs! What Power Divine Shall Henceforth Whash The River Rhine.

For I Often Please Myself With The Fancy, Now That I May Have Saved From Oblivion The Only Striking Passage In A Whole Volume, And Now That I May Have Attracted Notice To A Writer Undeservedly Forgotten.

And I, The While, The Sole Unbusy Thing, Nor Honey Make, Nor Pair, Nor Build, Nor Sing.

It Cannot But Be Injurious To The Human Mind Never To Be Called Into Effort: The Habit Of Receiving Pleasure Without Any Exertion Of Thought, By The Mere Excitement Of Curiosity, And Sensibility, May Be Justly Ranked Among The Worst Effects Of Habitual Novel-reading.