Did Man E'er Live Saw Priest Or

Nature, They Say, Doth Dote, And Cannot Make A Man Save On Some Worn-out Plan Repeating Us By Rote: For Him Her Old World Moulds Aside She Threw And, Choosing Sweet Clay From The Breast Of The Unexhausted West, With Stuff Untainted Shaped A Hero New.

All Thoughts That Mold The Age Begin Deep Down Within The Primitive Soul.

A Friendship Counting Nearly Forty Years Is The Finest Kind Of Shade-tree I Know.

Compromise Makes A Good Umbrella, But A Poor Roof.

The Pale And Quiet Moon Makes Her Calm Forehead Bare, And The Last Fragments Of The Storm, Like Shattered Rigging From A Fight At Sea, Silent And Few, Are Drifting Over Me.