Things Have A Terrible Permanence

The Fairy Poet Takes A Sheet Of Moonbeam, Silver White; His Ink Is Dew From Daisies Sweet, His Pen A Point Of Light.

I Think That I Shall Never See A Poem Lovely As A Tree. A Tree Whose Hungry Mouth Is Pressed Against The Earth's Sweet Flowing Breast; A Tree That Looks At God All Day And Lifts Her Leafy Arms To Pray; A Tree That May In Summer Wear A Nest Of Robins In Her Hair; Upon Whose Bosom Snow Has Lain; Who Intimately Lives With Rain. Poems Are Made By Fools Like Me, But Only God Can Make A Tree.

I Think That I Shall Never Scan A Tree As Lovely As A Man. . . . . A Tree Depicts Divinest Plan, But God Himself Lives In A Man.

Things Have A Terrible Permanence When People Die.

There Is No Place In Which To Hide When Age Comes Seeking For His Bride.