Imagination Is The Air Of Mind.

Who Can Mistake Great Thoughts? They Seize Upon The Mind; Arrest And Search, And Shake It; Bow The Tall Soul As By Wind; Rush Over It Like A River Reeds.

I Run The Gauntlet Of A File Of Doubts, Each One Of Which Down Hurls Me To The Ground.

See The Gold Sunshine Patching, And Streaming And Streaking Across The Gray-green Oaks; And Catching, By Its Soft Brown Beard, The Moss.

We Must Not Pluck Death From The Maker's Hand.

Night Comes, World-jewelled, . . . The Stars Rush Forth In Myriads As To Wage War With The Lines Of Darkness; And The Moon, Pale Ghost Of Night, Comes Haunting The Cold Earth After The Sun's Red Sea-death--quietless.