Joy, Whose Hand Is Ever At His

I Must Choose Between Despair And Energy──i Choose The Latter.

My Spirit Is Too Weak--mortality Weighs Heavily On Me Like Unwilling Sleep, And Each Imagin'd Pinnacle And Steep Of Godlike Hardship Tells Me I Must Die Like A Sick Eagle Looking At The Sky.

The Day Is Gone, And All Its Sweets Are Gone!

Call The World If You Please "the Vale Of Soul-making." Then You Will Find Out The Use Of The World.

To Sorrow I Bade Good-morrow, And Thought To Leave Her Far Away Behind; But Cheerly, Cheerly, She Loves Me Dearly: She Is So Constant To Me, And So Kind.