Generations Pass While Some Tree Stands, And

You Should Not Take A Fellow Eight Years Old And Make Him Swear To Never Kiss The Girls.

How Well I Know What I Mean To Do When The Long Dark Autumn Evenings Come, And Where, My Soul, Is Thy Pleasant Hue? With The Music Of All Thy Voices, Dumb In Life’s November Too! I Shall Be Found By The Fire, Suppose, O’er A Great Wise Book As Beseemeth Age, While The Shutters Flap As The Cross-wind Blows, And I Turn The Page, And I Turn The Page, Not Verse Now, Only Prose!

Tis Man's To Explore Up And Down, Inch By Inch, With The Taper His Reason.

Still More Labyrinthine Buds The Rose.

Smiling The Boy Fell Dead.