My Heart Contains Of Good, Wise, Just,

Leaves Have Their Time To Fall, And Flowers To Wither At The North - Wind's Breath, And Stars To Set; But All, Thou Hast All Seasons For Thine Own, O Death!

The Redundant Locks, Robustious To No Purpose, Clustering Down--vast Monument Of Strength.

Ink Is The Blood Of The Printing-press.

Look Homeward, Angel, Now, And Melt With Ruth.

For No Falsehood Can Endure Touch Of Celestial Temper.