But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence than the strong man in his wrath!

Men of science, osteologists And surgeons, beat some poets, in respect For nature,-count nought common or unclean, Spend raptures upon perfect specimens Of indurated veins, distorted joints, Or beautiful new cases of curved spine; While we, we are shocked at nature's falling off, We dare to shrink back from her warts and blains.

A grave, on which to rest from singing?

There, that is our secret: go to sleep! You will wake, and remember, and understand.

New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!

A woman's pity sometimes makes her mad.

Will that light come again, As now these tears come...falling hot and real!