The Plague Of Gold Strikes

Very Whitely Still The Lilies Of Our Lives May Reassure Their Blossoms From Their Roots, Accessible Alone To Heavenly Dews That Drop Not Fewer; Growing Straight Out Of Man's Reach, On The Hill. God Only, Who Made Us Rich, Can Make Us Poor.

Like To Write? Of Course, Of Course I Do. I Seem To Live While I Write - It Is Life, For Me.

A Great Acacia, With Its Slender Trunk And Overpoise Of Multitudinous Leaves. (in Which A Hundred Fields Might Spill Their Dew And Intense Verdure, Yet Find Room Enough) Stood Reconciling All The Place With Green.

How Many Desolate Creatures On The Earth Have Learnt The Simple Dues Of Fellowship And Social Comfort, In A Hospital.

The Soul's Rialto Hath Its Merchandise, I Barter For Curl Upon That Mart.