Some Arrows Slay But Whom They Strike

So Proud She Was To Die It Made Us All Ashamed That What We Cherished, So Unknown To Her Desire Seemed. So Satisfied To Go Where None Of Us Should Be, Immediately, That Anguish Stooped Almost To Jealousy.

His Labor Is A Chant - His Idleness -a Tune - Oh, For A Bee's Experience Of Clovers, And Of Noon!

If I Can Stop One Heart From Breaking, I Shall Not Live In Vain.

That Short, Potential Stir That Each Can Make But Once, That Bustle So Illustrious Tis Almost Consequence, Is The Eclat Of Death.

Behold This Little Bane- The Boon Of All Alive- As Common As It Is Unknown The Name Of It Is Love.