How Slight A Chance May Raise Or

Corruption Springs From Light: 'tis One Same Power Creates, Preserves, Destroys; Matter Whereon It Works, On E'er Self-transmutative Form, Common To Now The Living, Now The Dead.

America, Thou Half-brother Of The World; With Something Good And Bad Of Every Land.

Burn To Be Great, Pay Not Thy Praise To Lofty Things Alone. The Plains Are Everlasting As The Hills, The Bard Cannot Have Two Pursuits; Aught Else Comes On The Mind With The Like Shock As Though Two Worlds Had Gone To War, And Met In Air.

The Value Of A Thought Cannot Be Told.

I Am Tired Of Looking On What Is, One Might As Well See Beauty Never More, As Look Upon It With An Empty Eye. I Would This World Were Over. I Am Tired.