The Plague Of Gold Strikes Far And

It Was Not The Apple On The Tree But The Pair On The Ground That Caused The Trouble In The Garden Of Eden.

Life, Struck Sharp On Death, Makes Awful Lightning.

I Remember, When I Was A Child And Wrote Poems In Little Clasped Books, I Used To Kiss The Books And Put Them Away Tenderly Because I Had Been Happy Near Them, And Take Them Out By Turns When I Was Going From Home, To Cheer Them By The Change Of Air And The Pleasure Of The New Place. This, Not For The Sake Of The Verses Written In Them, And Not For The Sake Of Writing More Verses In Them, But From Pure Gratitude.

Let Us Be Content To Work To Do The Things We Can, And Not Presume To Fret Because It's Little.

But So Fair, She Takes The Breath Of Men Away Who Gaze Upon Her Unaware.