With Stammering Lips And Insufficient Sound I

Earth's Crammed With Heaven.

There's Nothing Great Nor Small, Has Said A Poet Of Our Day, Whose Voice Will Ring Beyond The Curfew Of Eve And Not Be Thrown Out By The Matin's Bell.

That Headlong Ivy! Not A Leaf Will Grow But Thinking Of A Wreath, . . . I Like Such Ivy; Bold To Leap A Height 'twas Strong To Climb! As Good To Grow On Graves As Twist About A Thyrsus; Pretty Too (and That's Not Ill) When Twisted Round A Comb.

Death Forerunneth Love To Win "sweetest Eyes Were Ever Seen."

No Man Can Be Called Friendless Who Has God And The Companionship Of Good Books.