In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

Of All Tales 'tis The Saddest--and More Sad, Because It Makes Us Smile.

The Thorns Which I Have Reap'd Are Of The Tree I Planted; They Have Torn Me, And I Bleed. I Should Have Known What Fruit Would Spring From Such A Seed.

To Withdraw Myself From Myself Has Ever Been My Sole, My Entire, My Sincere Motive In Scribbling At All.

'twas Strange That One So Young Should Thus Concern His Brain About The Action Of The Sky; If You Think 'twas Philosophy That This Did, I Can't Help Thinking Puberty Assisted.

And Mocha's Berry, From Arabia Pure, In Small Fine China Cups, Came In At Last. Gold Cups Of Filigree, Made To Secure The Hand From Burning, Underneath Them Place. Cloves, Cinnamon And Saffron, Too, Were Boiled Up With The Coffee, Which, I Think, They Spoiled.