So Instead Of Getting To Heaven, At

Remorse Is Cureless--the Disease Not Even God--can Heal-- For 'tis His Institution--and The Adequate Of Hell

I Am Going To Learn To Make Bread Tomorrow. So If You May Imagine Me With My Sleeves Rolled Up, Mixing Flour, Milk, Saleratus, Etc., With A Deal Of Grace. I Advise You If You Dont Know How To Make The Staff Of Life To Learn With Dispatch.

Victory Comes Late-- And Is Held Low To Freezing Lips-- Too Rapt With Frost To Take It

And You Dropt, Lost, When Something Broke-- And Let You From A Dream

Where Thou Art, That Is Home.