Bells Are Musics Laughter.

Pity It Is To Slay The Meanest Thing.

I Saw Old Autumn In The Misty Morn Stand Shadowless Like Silence, Listening To Silence.

Oh Would I Were Dead Now, Or Up In My Bed Now, To Cover My Head Now, And Have A Good Cry!

My Tears Must Stop, For Every Drop Hinders Needle And Thread.

What Is A Modern Poet's Fate? / To Write His Thoughts Upon A Slate; / The Critic Spits On What Is Done, / Gives It A Wipe - And All Is Gone.