All The Poet Can Do Today Is

I Am Only Conscious Of Any Satisfaction In Scientific Reading Or Thinking When It Rounds Off Into A Poetical Generality And Vagueness.

Dead Men May Envy Living Mites In Cheese, Or Good Germs Even. Microbes Have Their Joys, And Subdivide, And Never Come To Death.

All I Ask Is To Be Held Above The Barren Wastes Of Want.

I Tried To Peg Out Soldierly,--no Use! One Dies Of War Like Any Old Disease.

And By His Smile, I Knew That Sullen Hall, By His Dead Smile I Knew We Stood In Hell.