The Sailor Cannot See The North /

My Friends Are My Estate.

Portraits Are To Daily Faces As An Evening West To A Fine, Pedantic Sunshine In A Satin Vest.

If I Shouldn't Be Alive When The Robins Come, Give The One In Red Cravat, A Memorial Crumb.

How Happy Is The Little Stone That Rambles In The Road Alone, And Doesn't Care About Careers, And Exigencies Never Fears; Whose Coat Of Elemental Brown A Passing Universe Put On; And Independent As The Sun, Associates Or Glows Alone, Fulfilling Absolute Decree In Casual Simplicity.

I Dwell In Possibility A Fairer House Than Prose More Numerous Of Windows Superior--for Doors Of Chambers As The Cedars Impregnable Of Eye And For An Everlasting Roof The Gambrels Of The Sky Of Visitors--the Fairest For Occupation--this The Spreading Wide My Narrow Hands To Gather Paradise