The Soul's Rialto Hath Its Merchandise, I

His Ears Were Often The First Thing To Catch My Tears.

For 'tis Not In Mere Death That Men Die Most.

There Are Nettles Everywhere, But Smooth, Green Grasses Are More Common Still; The Blue Of Heaven Is Larger Than The Cloud.

Every Wish Is Like A Prayer--with God.

I Wish I Were The Lily's Leaf To Fade Upon That Bosom Warm, Content To Wither, Pale And Brief, The Trophy Of Thy Paler Form.