Its Matter Was Not New To Me,

There's A Young Man Hid With Me, In Comparison With Which Young Man I Am A Angel. That Young Man Hears The Words I Speak. That Young Man Has A Secret Way Pecooliar To Himself, Of Getting At A Boy, And At His Heart, And At His Liver.

Home Is Like The Ship At Sea, Sailing On Eternally; Oft The Anchor Forth We Cast, But Can Never Make It Fast.

Perhaps Second-hand Cares, Like Second-hand Clothes, Come Easily Off And On.

It Was The Momentary Yielding Of A Nature That Had Been Disappointed From The Dawn Of Its Perceptions, But Had Not Quite Given Up All Its Hopeful Yearnings Yet.

A Brisk, Bright, Blue-eyed Fellow, A Very Neat Figure And Rather Under The Middle Size, Never Out Of The Way And Never In It.