I Don't Own An Inch

I Believe The Best Poetry Of Our Times Is Growing Too Artistic; The Study Is Too Visible. If Freedom And Naturalness Are Lost Out Of Poetry, Everything Worth Having Is Lost.

Labor, In Itself, Is Neither Elevating Or Otherwise. It Is The Laborer's Privilege To Ennoble His Work By The Aim With Which He Undertakes It, And By The Enthusiasm And Faithfulness He Puts Into It.

The Curse Of Covetousness Is That It Destroys Manhood By Substituting Money For Character.

Everything In Nature Has Its Own Intrinsic Charm, As The Work Of Its Creator's Hand; But The Chief Beauty Of The Whole Lies In Its Suggested Relations To Humanity. Things Announce And Wait For Persons. The House Would Not Have Been Thus Beautifully Built And Furnished, Except For An Expected Tenant.

These Blossoms, Gathered In Familiar Paths, With Dear Companions Now Passed Out Of Sight, Shall Not Be Laid Upon Their Graves. They Live, Since Love Is Deathless. Pleasure Now Nor Pride Is Theirs In Mortal Wise, But Hallowing Thoughts Will Meet The Offering, Of So Little Worth, Wanting The Benison Death Has Made Divine.