This is my letter to the world, that never wrote to me, the simple news that nature told, with tender majesty. Her message is committed, to hands I cannot see; for love of her, sweet countrymen, judge tenderly of me.
A dim capacity for wings demeans the dress I wear.
Initial of Creation, and The Exponent of Earth.
Of Consciousness, her awful Mate. The Soul cannot be rid – as easy the secreting her behind the Eyes of God.
Each that we lose takes a part of us; A crescent still abides, Which like the moon, some turbid night, Is summoned by the tides.
Endow the Living – with the Tears – You squander on the Dead.
Publication – is the auction of the mind...
This World is not Conclusion. A Sequel stands beyond- Invisible, as Music- But positive, as Sound.
Faith slips – and laughs, and rallies.
Prayer is the little implement through which men reach; where presence is denied them.
September’s Baccalaureate A combination is Of Crickets – Crows – and Retrospects And a dissembling Breeze That hints without assuming – An Innuendo sear That makes the Heart put up its Fun And turn Philosopher.
You can stay young as long as you learn.
What fortitude the Soul contains, That it can so endure The accent of a coming Foot- The opening of a Door.
The Supernatural is only the Natural disclosed.
She rose to his requirement, dropped The playthings of her life To take the honorable work Of woman and of wife.
Life is the finest secret. So long as that remains, we must all whisper.
A color stands abroad on solitary hills that silence cannot overtake, but human nature feels.
Our journey had advanced; Our feet were almost come To that odd fork in Being’s road, Eternity by term.
A Toad, can die of Light – Death is the Common Right Of Toads and Men.
Nature, like us is sometimes caught without her diadem.