That Prose Is A Verse, And Verse

For What Were All These Country Patriots Born? To Hunt, And Vote, And Raise The Price Of Corn?

A Thousand Years May Scare Form A State. An Hour May Lay It In Ruins.

O Gold! I Still Prefer Thee Unto Paper, Which Makes Bank Credit Like A Bark Of Vapour.

Ye Stars! Which Are The Poetry Of Heaven!

I Have A Passion For The Name Of "mary," For Once It Was A Magic Sound To Me, And Still It Half Calls Up The Realms Of Fairy, Where I Beheld What Never Was To Be.