The Spreading Wide My Narrow Hands /

Nature Is What We Know - Yet Have Not Art To Say - So Impotent Our Wisdom Is To Her Simplicity.

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

Faith Slips - And Laughs, And Rallies

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

Forever Is Composed Of Nows— 'tis Not A Different Time— Except For Infiniteness— And Latitude Of Home