A power is passing from the earth.

The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.

Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.

But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

Death is the quiet haven of us all.

Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.

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