I Cling To Nowhere Until I Fall

Tis Not That Dieing Hurts Us So- Tis Living- Hurts Us More.

The Heart Asks Pleasure--first-- And Then--excuse From Pain

I Know Some Lonely Houses Off The Road A Robber'd Like The Look Of,-- Wooden Barred, And Windows Hanging Low

The Morns Are Meeker Than They Were, The Nuts Are Getting Brown; The Berry's Cheek Is Plumper, The Rose Is Out Of Town. The Maple Wears A Gayer Scarf, The Field A Scarlet Gown. Lest I Should Be Old-fashioned, I'll Put A Trinket On.

To See The Summer Sky Is Poetry, Though Never In A Book It Lie— True Poems Flee—