Death Is Delightful. Death Is Dawn, The

Solitude Is As Needful To The Imagination As Society Is Wholesome For The Character.

Scepticism Commonly Takes Up The Room Left By Defect Of Imagination, And Is The Very Quality Of Mind Most Likely To Seek For Sensual Proof Of Supersensual Things. If One Came From The Dead It Could Not Believe; And Yet It Longs For Such A Witness, And Will Put Up With A Very Dubious One.

But Civlyzation Doos Git Forrid Sometimes Upon A Powder-cart.

And The Poorest Twig On The Elm-tree Was Ridged Inch Deep With Pearl.

The Child Is Not Mine As The First Was, I Cannot Sing It To Rest, I Cannot Lift It Up Fatherly And Bliss It Upon My Breast; Yet It Lies In My Little One's Cradle And Sits In My Little One's Chair, And The Light Of The Heaven She's Gone To Transfigures Its Golden Hair.