My Friends Are My Estate.

Affection Is Like Bread, Unnoticed Till We Starve, And Then We Dream Of It, And Sing Of It, And Paint It, When Every Urchin In The Street Has More Than He Can Eat.

My Friends Are My Estate. Forgive Me Then The Avarice To Hoard Them. They Tell Me Those Who Were Poor Early Have Different Views Of Gold. I Don't Know How That Is. God Is Not So Wary As We, Else He Would Give Us No Friends, Lest We Forget Him.

And You Dropt, Lost, When Something Broke-- And Let You From A Dream

We Must Be Careful What We Say. No Bird Resumes Its Egg.

Memory Is A Strange Bell—jubilee, And Knell.