I Could No More Define Poetry Than

In Every American There Is An Air Of Incorrigible Innocence, Which Seems To Conceal A Diabolical Cunning.

Nature, Not Content With Denying Him The Ability To Think, Has Endowed Him With The Ability To Write.

Strapped, Noosed, Nighing His Hour, He Stood And Counted Them And Cursed His Luck; And Then The Clock Collected In The Tower Its Strength, And Struck.

I Sought Them Far And Found Them, The Sure, The Straight, The Brave, The Hearts I Lost My Own To, The Souls I Could Not Save They Braced Their Belts About Them, They Crossed In Ships The Sea, They Sought And Found Six Feet Of Ground, And There They Died For Me.

Loveliest Of Trees, The Cherry Now Is Hung With Bloom Along The Bough.