The Redbreast Whistles From A

Who Hath Not Seen Thee Oft Amid Thy Store? Sometimes Whoever Seeks Abroad May Find Thee Sitting Careless On A Granary Floor, Thy Hair Soft-lifted By The Winnowing Wind; Or On A Half-reap'd Furrow Sound Asleep, Drows'd With The Fume Of Poppies, While Thy Hook Spares The Next Swath And All Its Twined Flowers.

I Wish To Believe In Immortality-i Wish To Live With You Forever.

Failure Is, In A Sense, The Highway To Success.

So Let Me Be Thy Choir, And Make A Moan Upon The Midnight Hours.

The Silver, Snarling Trumpets 'gan To Chide.