I Do Not Count The Hours I

Live In The Sunshine, Swim The Sea, Drink The Wild Air.

It Is One Of The Blessings Of Old Friends That You Can Afford To Be Stupid With Them.

Where The Banana Grows Man Is Sensual And Cruel.

Some Men, At The Approach Of A Dispute, Neigh Like Horses.

A Poet Is No Rattlebrain, Saying What Comes Uppermost, And, Because He Says Every Thing, Saying, At Last, Something Good; But A Heart In Unison With His Time And Country. There Is Nothing Whimsical Or Fantastic In His Production, But Sweet And Sad Earnest, Freighted With The Weightiest Convictions, And Pointed With The Most Determined Aim Which Any Man Or Class Knows Of In His Times.