Fame Is A Bee It Has A

I Like A Look Of Agony, Because I Know It's True - Men Do Not Sham Convulsion, Nor Simulate, A Throe

We Do Not Play On Graves— Because There Isn't Room— Besides—it Isn't Even—it Slants And People Come— And Put A Flower On It— And Hang Their Faces So— We're Fearing That Their Hearts Will Drop— And Crush Our Pretty Play— And So We Move As Far As Enemies—away— Just Looking Round To See How Far It Is—occasionally—

Beauty Is Not Caused. It Is.

A Deed Knocks First At Thought And Then - It Knocks At Will - That Is The Manufacturing Spot.

The Revery Alone Will Do If Bees Are Few.