Among Unequals What Society Can Sort, What

What Neat Repast Shall Feast Us, Light And Choice, Of Attic Taste?

The Leaf Was Darkish, And Had Prickles On It, But In Another Country, As He Said, Bore A Bright Golden Flow'r, But Not In This Soil; Unknown, And Like Esteem'd, And The Dull Swain Treads On It Daily With His Clouted Shoon.

Fate Shall Yield To Fickle Chance, And Chaos Judge The Strife.

I Will Not Deny But That The Best Apology Against False Accusers Is Silence And Sufferance, And Honest Deeds Set Against Dishonest Words.

Beauty Is God's Handwriting-a Wayside Sacrament.