As We To The Brutes, Poets Are

Published Memoirs Indicate The End Of A Man's Activity, And That He Acknowledges The End.

Not Till The Fire Is Dying In The Grate, Look We For Any Kinship With The Stars.

Observation Is The Most Enduring Of The Pleasures Of Life.

Sunrays, Leaning On Our Southern Hills And Lighting Wild Cloud-mountains That Drag The Hills Along, Oft Ends The Day Of Your Shifting Brilliant Laughter Chill As A Dull Face Frowning On A Song. Ay, But Shows The South-west A Ripple-feathered Bosom Blown To Silver While The Clouds Are Shaken And Ascend Scaling The Mid-heavens As They Stream, There Comes A Sunset Rich, Deep Like Love In Beauty Without End.

God's Rarest Blessing Is, After All, A Good Woman!