This is my letter to the World That never wrote to Me - The simple News that Nature told - With tender Majesty Her Message is committed To Hands I cannot see - For love of Her - Sweet - countrymen - Judge tenderly - of Me

God preaches, a noted Clergyman - And the sermon is never long, So instead of getting to Heaven, at last- I'm going, all along.

I died for Beauty - but was scarce Adjusted in the Tomb, When One who died for Truth, was lain In an adjoining Room - He questioned softly 'Why I failed'? 'For…

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church - I keep it, staying at Home- With a Bobolink for a Chorister - And an Orchard, for a Dome-

'Shells with lip, or tooth, or bleeding gum, Tell-tale shells, and shells that whisper 'Come', Shells that stammer, blush, and yet are dumb - ' 'O let me hear!'

Poetry teaches the enormous force of a few words, and, in proportion to the inspiration, checks loquacity.

That Donne himself, for not being understood, would perish.