Bread, Milk And Butter Are

With Spots Of Sunny Openings, And With Nooks To Lie And Read In, Sloping Into Brooks.

Little Eyes Must Be Good-tempered Or They Are Ruined. They Have No Other Resource. But This Will Beautify Them Enough. They Are Made For Laughing, And, Should Do Their Duty.

Write Me As One Who Loves His Fellow Men.

Those Who Have Lost An Infant Are Never, In A Way, Without An Infant.

It Flows Through Old Hushed Egypt And Its Sands, Like Some Grave Mighty Thought Threading A Dream, And Times And Things, As In That Vision, Seem Keeping Along It Their Eternal Stands.