Hell Is The Wrath Of God--his Hate

And These Are Joys, Like Beauty, But Skin Deep.

The Wind Breathes Not, And The Wave Walks Softly As Above A Grave.

We Live In Deeds, Not Years; In Thoughts, Not Figures On A Dial. We Should Count Time By Heart Throbs. He Most Lives Who Thinks Most, Feels The Noblest, Acts The Best.

A Poet Not In Love Is Out At Sea; He Must Have A Lay-figure.

See The Gold Sunshine Patching, And Streaming And Streaking Across The Gray-green Oaks; And Catching, By Its Soft Brown Beard, The Moss.