The Value Of A Thought Cannot Be

Not A Single Path Of Thought I Tread, But That It Leads To God.

Lips Like Rosebuds Peeping Out Of Snow.

Wan Night, The Shadow Goer, Came Stepping In.

Look On The Bee Upon The Wing 'mong Flowers; How Brave, How Bright His Life! Then Mark, Him Hiv'd, Cramp'd, Cringing In His Self-built, Social Cell, Thus It Is In The World-hive; Most Where Men Lie Deep In Cities As In Drifts.

There Is No Disappointment We Endure One-half So Great As What We Are To Ourselves.