When we think of his lone effort to live and its bleak reward, the mind turns to the myth "for His mercy endureth forever," with confiding revulsion.

Love is like life-merely longer.

Truth - is as old as God-.

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege I think.

Time is short and full, like an outgrown Frock - .

When a Lover is a Beggar Abject is his Knee. When a Lover is an Owner Different is he.

I dwell in possiblities.