Beauty Crowds Me Till I Die.

We Both Believe, And Disbelieve A Hundred Times An Hour, Which Keeps Believing Nimble.

We Never Know We Go When We Are Going- We Jest And Shut The Door- Fate-following-behind Us Bolts It- And We Accost No More-.

To See The Summer Sky Is Poetry, Though Never In A Book It Lie— True Poems Flee—

Tell All The Truth But Tell It Slant-- Success In Circuit Lies Too Bright For Our Infirm Delight The Truth's Superb Surprise As Lightning To The Children Eased With Explanation Kind The Truth Must Dazzle Gradually Or Every Man Be Blind--

The Lovely Flowers Embarrass Me. They Make Me Regret I Am Not A Bee.