I Could Not Prove The Years Had

I Cannot Help Esteem The 'bird Within The Hand' Superior To The One The 'bush' May Yield Me Or May Not Too Late To Choose Again

My River Runs To Thee: Blue Sea, Wilt Welcome Me? My River Waits Reply. Oh Sea, Look Graciously! I ’ll Fetch Thee Brooks From Spotted Nooks,— Say, Sea, Take Me!

So Instead Of Getting To Heaven, At Last - I’m Going, All Along.

Such Is The Force Of Happiness-- The Least Can Lift A Ton Assisted By Its Stimulus.

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