If A Man Is Worth Knowing At

The Sun Was Down, And All The West Was Paved With Sullen Fire. I Cried, Behold! The Barren Beach Of Hell At Ebb Of Tide.

In Winter, When The Dismal Rain Comes Down In Slanting Lines, And Wind, That Grand Old Harper, Smote His Thunder-harp Of Pines.

Trifles Make Up The Happiness Or The Misery Of Mortal Life.

My Heart Like Moon-charmed Waters, All Unrest.

In My Garden I Spend My Days; In My Library I Spend My Nights.