My Native Land, Good Night!

Talent May Be In Time Forgiven, But Genius Never

There Is Music In All Things, If Men Had Ears.

A Little Still She Strove, And Much Repented, And Whispering “i Will Ne'er Consent”—consented.

I Have Not Loved The World, Nor The World Me; I Have Not Flattered Its Rank Breath, Nor Bowed To Its Idolatries A Patient Knee, Nor Coined My Cheek To Smiles,-nor Cried Aloud In Worship Of An Echo.

In Solitude, When We Are Least Alone.