God Is The Perfect Poet,

How He Lies In His Rights Of A Man! Death Has Done All Death Can. And Absorbed In The New Life He Leads, He Recks Not, He Heeds Nor His Wrong Nor My Vengeance; Both Strike On His Senses Alike, And Are Lost In The Solemn And Strange Surprise Of The Change.

Boot, Saddle, To Horse, And Away!

Ah, But A Man's Reach Should Exceed His Grasp, Or What's A Heaven For?

Oh, To Be In England Now That April's There, And Whoever Wakes In England Sees, Some Morning, Unaware.

Never Brag, Never Bluster, Never Blush.