I do not like the man who squanders life for fame; give me the man who living makes a name.
If I shouldn't be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.
I do not feel I could give up all for Christ, were I called to die.
My friends are my estate. Forgive me then the avarice to hoard them. They tell me those who were poor early have different views of gold. I don't know how that is. God is not so wary as we, else He would give us no friends, lest we forget Him.
There's a certain Slant of light, Winter afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, it gives us— We can find no scar, But internal difference, Where the Meanings, are.... When it comes, the Landscape listens— Shadows—hold their breath— When it goes, 'tis like the Distance On the look of Death.
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