There Are Books That One

Meek-eyed Parents Hasten Down The Ramps To Greet Their Offspring, Terrible From Camps.

Oh, Princes Thrive On Caviar, The Poor On Whey And Curds, / And Politicians, I Infer, Must Eat Their Windy Words. / It's Crusts That Feed The Virtuous, It's Cake That Comforts Sinners, / But Writers Live On Bread And Praise At Literary Dinners.

Happiness Puts On As Many Shapes As Discontent, And There Is Nothing Odder Than The Satisfaction Of One's Neighbor.

Wherever Conversation's Flowing, / Why Must I Feel It Falls On Me / To Keep Things Going?

Time Is The Thief You Cannot Banish.