Thou large-brain'd woman and large-hearted man.

And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness; Round our restlessness, His rest.

OF writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,- Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it Long after he has ceased to love you, just To hold together what he was and is.

May the good God pardon all good men.

I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me.

When the dust of death has choked a great man's voice, the common words he said turn oracles, the common thoughts he yoked like horses draw like griffins.

Yes, I answered you last night; No, this morning, sir, I say: Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day.