I, A Stranger And Afraid, In A

Clay Lies Still, But Blood's A Rover; Breath's Aware That Will Not Keep. Up, Lad: When The Journey's Over Then There'll Be Time Enough To Sleep.

Earth And High Heaven Are Fixed Of Old And Founded Strong.

Tell Me Not Here, It Needs Not Saying, What Tune The Enchantress Plays In Aftermaths Of Soft September Or Under Blanching Mays, For She And I Were Long Acquainted And I Knew All Her Ways.

In Every American There Is An Air Of Incorrigible Innocence, Which Seems To Conceal A Diabolical Cunning.

Good Religious Poetry... Is Likely To Be Most Justly Appreciated And Most Discriminately Relished By The Undevout.