In Ourselves Are Triumph And Defeat.

Like Black Hulks The Shadows Of The Great Trees Ride At Anchor On The Billowy Sea Of Grass.

I Stay A Little Longer, As One Stays, To Cover Up The Embers That Still Burn.

O Little Feet! That Such Long Years Must Wander On Through Hopes And Fears, Must Ache And Bleed Beneath Your Load; I, Nearer To The Wayside Inn Where Toil Shall Cease And Rest Begin, Am Weary, Thinking Of Your Road!

It Is Folly To Pretend That One Ever Wholly Recovers From A Disappointed Passion. Such Wounds Always Leave A Scar. There Are Faces I Can Never Look Upon Without Emotion, There Are Names I Can Never Hear Spoken Without Almost Starting.

The Country Is Not Priest-ridded, But Press-ridden.