The Sea Complains Upon A Thousand Shores.

The Sea Complains Upon A Thousand Shores.

The Pale Child, Eve, Leading Her Mother, Night.

Your Death And My Death Are Mainly Of Importance To Ourselves. The Black Plumes Will Be Stripped Off Our Hearses Within The Hour; Tears Will Dry, Hurt Hearts Close Again, Our Graves Grow Level With The Church-yard, And Although We Are Away, The World Wags On. It Does Not Miss Us; And Those Who Are Near Us, When The First Strangeness Of Vacancy Wears Off, Will Not Miss Us Much Either.

A Poem Round And Perfect As A Star.

In Winter, When The Dismal Rain Comes Down In Slanting Lines, And Wind, That Grand Old Harper, Smote His Thunder-harp Of Pines.