And Looking To The Heaven, That Bends

Come, Come Thou Bleak December Wind, And Blow The Dry Leaves From The Tree! Flash, Like A Love-thought, Thro'me, Death And Take A Life That Wearies Me.

How Strange And Awful Is The Synthesis Of Life And Death In The Gusty Winds And Falling Leaves Of An Autumnal Day!

Poor Little Foal Of An Oppressed Race! I Love The Languid Patience Of Thy Face.

Often Do The Spirits Stride On Before The Event; And In Today Already Walks Tomorrow.

Religion Is The Most Gentlemanly Thing In The World. It Alone Will Gentilize, If Unmixed With Cant.