Wall Must Get The Weather Stain Before

Tis Aye A Solemn Thing To Me To Look Upon A Babe That Sleeps-- Wearing In Its Spirit-deeps The Unrevealed Mystery Of Its Adam's Taint And Woe, Which, When They Revealed Lie, Will Not Let It Slumber So.

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.

Get Leave To Work In This World,--'tis The Best You Get At All.

Too Much Beauty, I Reckon, Is Nothing But Too Much Sun.

For Poets (bear The Word) Half-poets Even, Are Still Whole Democrats.