Boughs Are Daily Rifled By The Gusty

My Tears Must Stop, For Every Drop Hinders Needle And Thread.

Fuss Is The Froth Of Business.

How Bless'd The Heart That Has A Friend. A Sympathizing Ear To Lend.

What Is A Modern Poet's Fate? / To Write His Thoughts Upon A Slate; / The Critic Spits On What Is Done, / Gives It A Wipe - And All Is Gone.

We Watch'd Her Breathing Through The Night, Her Breathing Soft And Low, As In Her Breast The Wave Of Life Kept Heaving To And Fro.