Every body is a critic

"You are old, Father William." the young man cried, "The few locks which are left you are grey; You are hale, Father William—a hearty old man: Now tell me the reason, I pray."

It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun, And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

If you would be pungent, be brief ; for it is with words as with sunbeams—the more they are condensed, the deeper they burn.

Cold is thy heart and as frozen as Charity!

"In my days of youth, I remembered my God, And he hath not forgotten my age."

He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round.