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A mighty good sausage stuffer was spoiled when the man became a poet.

Eugene Field

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Eugene Field
Age: 45 †
Born: 1850
Born: September 3
Died: 1895
Died: November 4
Editor
Journalist
Poet
Writer
St. Louis
Missouri
Poet
Poetry
Good
Men
Sausage
Spoiled
Mighty
Became

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I'd like a stocking made for a giant, And a meeting house full of toys, Then I'd go out in a happy hunt For the poor little girls and boys Up the street and down the street, And across and over the town, I'd search and find them everyone, Before the sun went down.
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When I demanded of my friend what viands he preferred, He quoth: A large cold bottle, and a small hot bird!
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Let my temptation be a book.
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There is a glorious candor in an honest quart of wine, A certain inspitation which I cannot well define.
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Some statesmen go to Congress and some go to jail. It is the same thing, after all.
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Let my temptation be a book, which I shall purchase, hold and keep.
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Ideas came with explosive immediacy, like an instant birth. Human thought is like a monstrous pendulum it keeps swinging from one extreme to the other.
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Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe, - Sailed on a river of crystal light Into a sea of dew.
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Books do actually consume air and exhale perfumes.
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The best of all physiciansIs apple pie and cheese!
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But I, when I undress me Each night, upon my knees Will ask the Lord to bless me With apple-pie and cheese.
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But he who truly loves books loves all books alike, and not only this, but it grieves him that all other men do not share with him this noble passion. Verily, this is the most unselfish of loves!
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Have you an unexpurgated copy of Hannah More's 'Letters to a Village Maiden'?
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All human joys are swift of wing, For heaven doth so allot it That when you get an easy thing, You find you haven't got it
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Not so, however, with books, for books cannot change. A thousand years hence they are what you find them to-day, speaking the same words, holding forth the same cheer, the same promise, the same comfort always constant, laughing with those who laugh and weeping with those who weep.
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What smells so? Has somebody been burning a Rag, or is there a Dead Mule in the Back yard? No, the Man is Smoking a Five-Cent Cigar.
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He is so mean, he won't let his little baby have more than one measle at a time.
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Father calls me William, sister calls me Will, Mother calls me Willie, but the fellows call me Bill!.
Eugene Field