I See My Trees Repair Their Boughs.

For Beauty Is God's Handwriting...a Nd, Thank God For It As A Cup Of His Blessing.

Earth's A Howling Wilderness, Truculent With Fraud And Force.

Little Thinks, In The Field, Yon Red-cloaked Clown, Of Thee, From The Hill-top Looking Down; And The Heifer, That Lows In The Upland Farm, Far-heard, Lows Not Thine Ear To Charm; The Sexton Tolling The Bell At Noon, Dreams Not That Great Napoleon Sto

I Shun Father And Mother And Wife And Brother When My Genius Calls Me. I Would Write On The Lintels Of The Door-post, Whim. I Hope That It Is Somewhat Better Than Whim At Last, But We Cannot Spend The Day In Explanation.

My Joy In Friends, Those Sacred People, Is My Consolation.