On Wings Of Wind Came Flying All

Why Has Not Man A Microscopic Eye? For This Plain Reason, Man Is Not A Fly. Say What The Use, Were Finer Optics Giv'n, T' Inspect A Mite, Not Comprehend The Heav'n.

Here Am I, Dying Of A Hundred Good Symptoms.

The Lights And Shades, Whose Well-accorded Strife Gives All The Strength And Color Of Our Life.

Whoever Thinks A Faultless Piece To See, Thinks What Ne'er Was, Nor Is, Nor E'er Shall Be, In Every Work Regard The Writer's End, Since None Can Compass More Than They Intend; And If The Means Be Just, The Conduct True, Applause, In Spite Of Trivial Faults, Is Due.

The Spider's Touch, How Exquisitely Fine! Feels At Each Thread, And Lives Along The Line.