For Frequent Tears Have Run;

And Lips Say “god Be Pitiful,” Who Ne'er Said “god Be Praised.”

The Plague Of Gold Strikes Far And Near.

And Friends, Dear Friends,--when It Shall Be That This Low Breath Is Gone From Me, And Gone My Bier Ye Come To Weep, Let One, Most Loving Of You All, Say, "not A Tear Must O'er Her Fall; He Giveth His Beloved Sleep.

When We First Met And Loved, I Did Not Build Upon The Event With Marble. . . .

Earth's Crammed With Heaven.