So Secretly, Like Wrongs Hushed-up, They Went.

A Poem Does Not Grow By Jerks. As Trees In Spring Produce A New Ring Of Tissue, So Does Every Poet Put Forth A Fresh Outlay Of Stuff At The Same Season.

And Some Cease Feeling Even Themselves Or For Themselves. Dullness Best Solves The Tease And Doubt Of Shelling

What Passing-bells For These Who Die As Cattle? Only The Monstrous Anger Of The Guns.

Heart, You Were Never Hot Nor Large, Nor Full Like Hearts Made Great With Shot

I Don't Ask Myself, Is The Life Congenial To Me? But, Am I Fitted For, Am I Called To, The Ministry?