Finite To Fail, But Infinite

A Light Exists In Spring Not Present In The Year At Any Other Period When March Is Scarcely Here.

This Is My Letter To The World, That Never Wrote To Me, The Simple News That Nature Told, With Tender Majesty. Her Message Is Committed, To Hands I Cannot See; For Love Of Her, Sweet Countrymen, Judge Tenderly Of Me.

Where Thou Art, That Is Home.

Endow The Living - With The Tears - You Squander On The Dead.

Life Is So Rotatory That The Wilderness Falls To Each, Sometime.