Every Age, Through Being Beheld Too Close,

My Patience Has Dreadful Chilblains From Standing So Long On A Monument.

Like To Write? Of Course, Of Course I Do. I Seem To Live While I Write - It Is Life, For Me.

O, Brothers! Let Us Leave The Shame And Sin Of Taking Vainly In A Plaintive Mood, The Holy Name Of Grief--holy Herein, That, By The Grief Of One, Came All Our Good.

Get Work, Get Work; Be Sure 'tis Better Than What You Work To Get.

O Rose, Who Dares To Name Thee? No Longer Roseate Now, Nor Soft, Nor Sweet, But Pale, And Hard, And Dry, As Stubblewheat, Kept Seven Years In A Drawer, Thy Titles Shame Thee.