And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.

We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.

In years that bring the philosophic mind.

A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?

My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.

Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.

Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.