The World Is A Great Poem, And

See The Gold Sunshine Patching, And Streaming And Streaking Across The Gray-green Oaks; And Catching, By Its Soft Brown Beard, The Moss.

Joys Are Bubble-like--what Makes Them Bursts Them Too.

Necessity, Like Electricity, Is In Ourselves And All Things, And No More Without Us Than Within Us.

Love Spends His All, And Still Hath Store.

Doubt Is The Shadow Of Truth.