Was It For This The Clay Grew

I Tried To Peg Out Soldierly,--no Use! One Dies Of War Like Any Old Disease.

I Am Only Conscious Of Any Satisfaction In Scientific Reading Or Thinking When It Rounds Off Into A Poetical Generality And Vagueness.

Never Fear: Thank Home, And Poetry, And The Force Behind Both.

The Pallor Of Girls' Brows Shall Be Their Pall; Their Flowers The Tenderness Of Patient Minds, And Each Slow Dusk A Drawing-down Of Blinds.

Escape? There Is One Unwatched Way: Your Eyes. O Beauty! Keep Me Good That Secret Gate.