A Poem Round And Perfect As A

A Man's Real Possession Is His Memory. In Nothing Else Is He Rich, In Nothing Else Is He Poor.

A Man Does Not Plant A Tree For Himself; He Plants It For Posterity.

A Man Can Bear A World's Contempt When He Has That Within Which Says He's Worthy. When He Contemns Himself, There Burns The Hell.

In My Garden, Care Stops At The Gate And Gazes At Me Wistfully Through The Bars.

Books Are A Finer World Within The World. (1863)