My Brain Is Dull, My

I Remember, I Remember, The House Where I Was Born, The Little Window Where The Sun Came Peeping In At Morn.

Alas For The Rarity Of Christian Charity Under The Sun!

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

Some Dreams We Have Are Nothing Else But Dreams, Unnatural And Full Of Contradictions; Yet Others Of Our Most Romantic Schemes, Are Something More Than Fictions.

I Saw Old Autumn In The Misty Morn Stand Shadowless Like Silence, Listening To Silence.