If All Were Rich, Gold Would Be

The Wind Breathes Not, And The Wave Walks Softly As Above A Grave.

Ah, Nothing Comes To Us Too Soon But Sorrow.

Man Is A Military Animal, Glories In Gunpowder, And Loves Parade.

Night Comes, World-jewelled, . . . The Stars Rush Forth In Myriads As To Wage War With The Lines Of Darkness; And The Moon, Pale Ghost Of Night, Comes Haunting The Cold Earth After The Sun's Red Sea-death--quietless.

I Run The Gauntlet Of A File Of Doubts, Each One Of Which Down Hurls Me To The Ground.