A Clock Stopped-- Not The Mantel's-- Geneva's

I Had No Time To Hate, Because The Grave Would Hinder Me, And Life Was Not So Ample I Could Finish Enmity Nor Had I Time To Love: But Since Some Industry Must Be, The Little Toil Of Love, I Thought, Was Large Enough For Me.

Angels In The Early Morning May Be Seen The Dews Among. Stooping, Plucking, Smiling, Flying. Do The Buds To Them Belong?

I'll Tell You How The Sun Rose.

Nature, Like Us Is Sometimes Caught Without Her Diadem.

Our Little Kinsmen After Rain In Plenty May Be Seen, A Pink And Pulpy Multitude The Tepid Ground Upon; A Needless Life If Seemed To Me Until A Little Bird As To A Hospitality Advanced And Breakfasted.