In My Garden I Spend My Days;

The Pale Child, Eve, Leading Her Mother, Night.

If The Egotist Is Weak, His Egotism Is Worthless. If The Egotist Is Strong, Acute, Full Of Distinctive Character, His Egotism Is Precious, And Remains A Possession Of The Race.

A Man Does Not Plant A Tree For Himself; He Plants It For Posterity.

The Sun Was Down, And All The West Was Paved With Sullen Fire. I Cried, Behold! The Barren Beach Of Hell At Ebb Of Tide.

The Pleased Sea On A White-breasted Shore-- A Shore That Wears On Her Alluring Brows Rare Shells, Far Brought, The Love-gifts Of The Sea, That Blushed A Tell-tale.