No Wonder Is Greater Than Any Other

An Author Is Like A Baker; It Is For Him To Make The Sweets, And Others To Buy And Enjoy Them.

With Spots Of Sunny Openings, And With Nooks To Lie And Read In, Sloping Into Brooks.

Those Who Have Lost An Infant Are Never, In A Way, Without An Infant.

It Flows Through Old Hushed Egypt And Its Sands, Like Some Grave Mighty Thought Threading A Dream, And Times And Things, As In That Vision, Seem Keeping Along It Their Eternal Stands.

Sympathizing And Selfish People Are Alike, Both Given To Tears.