O Men With Sisters Dear, O Men

What Is A Modern Poet's Fate? / To Write His Thoughts Upon A Slate; / The Critic Spits On What Is Done, / Gives It A Wipe - And All Is Gone.

A Moment's Thinking Is An Hour In Words.

A Name, It Has More Than Nominal Worth, And Belongs To Good Or Bad Luck At Birth

Dear Bells! How Sweet The Sound Of Village Bells When On The Undulating Air They Swim!

What Joy Have I In June's Return? My Feet Are Parched-my Eyeballs Burn, I Scent No Flowery Gust; But Faint The Flagging Zephyr Springs, With Dry Macadam On Its Wings, And Turns Me 'dust To Dust.'