The Good I Stand On Is My

There Is A Willow Grows Aslant A Brook, That Shows His Hoar Leaves In The Glassy Stream; There With Fantastic Garlands Did She Come Of Crow-flowers, Nettles, Daisies, And Long Purples That Liberal Shepherds Give A Grosser Name, But Our Cold Maids Do Dead Men's Fingers Call Them: There, On The Pendent Boughs Her Coronet Weeds Clambering To Hang, An Envious Sliver Broke; When Down Her Weedy Trophies And Herself Fell In The Weeping Brook.

Fight Valiantly To-day; And Yet I Do Thee Wrong To Mind Thee Of It, For Thou Art Framed Of The Firm Truth Of Valor.

So They Loved As Love In Twain Had The Essence But In One; Two Distinct, Divisions None.

Nymph, In Thy Orisons Be All My Sins Remembered!

There's Not The Smallest Orb Which Thou Behold'st But In His Motion Like An Angel Sings.