This Is To Be Along; This, This

I Love The Language, It Sounds As If It Should Be Writ On Satin With Syllables Which Breathe Of The Sweet South

Sighing That Nature Formed But One Such Man, And Broke The Die.

'tis Sweet To Know There Is An Eye Will Mark Our Coming, And Look Brighter When We Come.

Perhaps The Early Grave Which Men Weep Over May Be Meant To Save.

I Have Not Loved The World, Nor The World Me; I Have Not Flattered Its Rank Breath, Nor Bowed To Its Idolatries A Patient Knee, Nor Coined My Cheek To Smiles,-nor Cried Aloud In Worship Of An Echo.