But A Book Is Only The Heart's

Which Anguish Was The Utterest--then-- To Perish, Or To Live?

Fame Is A Fickle Food Upon A Shifting Plate, Whose Table Once A Guest, But Not The Second Time, Is Set. Whose Crumbs The Crows Inspect, And With Ironic Caw Flap Past It To The Farmer's Corn; Men Eat Of It And Die.

If I Feel Physically As If The Top Of My Head Were Taken Off, I Know That Is Poetry.

I Have A Bird In Spring Which For Myself Doth Sing - The Spring Decoys. And As The Summer Nears - And As The Rose Appears, Robin Is Gone. Yet Do I Not Repine Knowing That Bird Of Mine Though Flown - Learneth Beyond The Sea Melody New For Me And Will Return.

To Lose Ones Faith-surpass The Loss Of An Estate- Because Estates Can Be Replenished- Faith Cannot-.