Nor Fame I Slight, Nor For Her

The Lights And Shades, Whose Well-accorded Strife Gives All The Strength And Color Of Our Life.

But Honest Instinct Comes A Volunteer; Sure Never To O'er-shoot, But Just To Hit, While Still Too Wide Or Short In Human Wit.

Give Me Again My Hollow Tree A Crust Of Bread, And Liberty!

You Eat, In Dreams, The Custard Of The Day.

Happy The Man Whose Wish And Care A Few Paternal Acres Bound, Content To Breathe His Native Air In His Own Ground.