10.  Alone, alone, all, all alone,
      Alone on a wide, wide sea!

11.  The splendor falls on castle walls,
      And snowy summits old in story.

12.  Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
    Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
    To the last syllable of recorded time.

13.  The moan of doves in immemorial elms,
    And murmurings of innumerable bees.

14.  The Ladies’ Aid ladies were talking about a conversation they had overheard, before the meeting, between a man and his wife.

“They must have been at the Zoo,” said Mrs. A.; “because I heard her mention ‘a trained deer.’”

“Goodness me!” laughed Mrs. B.  “What queer hearing you must have!  They were talking about going away, and she said, ’Find out about the train, dear.’”

“Well, did anybody ever!” exclaimed Mrs. C.  “I am sure they were talking about musicians, for she said, ‘a trained ear,’ as distinctly as could be.”

The discussion began to warm up, and in the midst of it the lady herself appeared.  They carried the case to her promptly, and asked for a settlement.

“Well, well, you do beat all!” she exclaimed, after hearing each one.  “I’d been out in the country overnight and was asking my husband if it rained here last night.”

15.  Learning condemns beyond the reach of hope
    The careless lips that speak of s[)o]ap for soap;
    Her edict exiles from her fair abode
    The clownish voice that utters r[)o]ad for road;
    Less stern to him who calls his coat a c[)o]at,
    And steers his boat believing it a b[)o]at. 
    She pardoned one, our classic city’s boast,
    Who said at Cambridge, m[)o]st instead of most,
    But knit her brows and stamped her angry foot
    To hear a Teacher call a root a r[)o]ot.

16.  Hear the tolling of the bells—­
               Iron bells! 
    What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! 
           In the silence of the night,
           How we shiver with affright
    At the melancholy menace of their tone! 
    For every sound that floats
    From the rust within their throats
        Is a groan. 
    And the people—­ah, the people—­
    They that dwell up in the steeple,
            All alone,
      And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
        In that muffled monotone,
      Feel a glory in so rolling
        On the human heart a stone—­
They are neither man nor woman—­
They are neither brute nor human—­
          They are Ghouls: 
    And their king it is who tolls;
    And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
          Rolls
      A Paean from the bells! 
    And his merry bosom swells
    With the paean of the bells! 
    And he dances, and he yells;
    Keeping time, time, time,
    In a sort of Runic rhyme,
    To the paean of the bells—­
         Of the bells.