Bring Me The Sunset In A Cup.

Our Little Kinsmen After Rain In Plenty May Be Seen, A Pink And Pulpy Multitude The Tepid Ground Upon; A Needless Life If Seemed To Me Until A Little Bird As To A Hospitality Advanced And Breakfasted.

The Soul Selects Her Own Society.

Will You Tell Me My Fault, Frankly As To Yourself, For I Had Rather Wince, Than Die. Men Do Not Call The Surgeon To Commend The Bone, But To Set It, Sir.

Tell All The Truth, But Tell It Slant/success In Circuit Lies.

How Softly Summer Shuts, Without The Creaking Of A Door.