Autumn Wins You Best By This Its

Strike When Thou Wilt, The Hour Of Rest, But Let My Last Days Be My Best.

I See My Way As Birds Their Trackless Way. I Shall Arrive,- What Time, What Circuit First, I Ask Not; But Unless God Send His Hail Or Blinding Fire-balls, Sleet Or Stifling Snow, In Some Time, His Good Time, I Shall Arrive: He Guides Me And The Bird. In His Good Time.

That Great Brow And The Spirit-small Hand Propping It.

Genius Has Somewhat Of The Infantine; But Of The Childish Not A Touch Or Taint.

Might She Have Loved Me? Just As Well She Might Have Hated, Who Can Tell!