Peace And Rest At Length

Comfort And Indolence Are Cronies.

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.

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.

I Love Thee - I Love Thee, 'tis All That I Can Say, It Is My Vision In The Night, My Dreaming In The Day.

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