The roots that work below;
From your rich dust and slaughtered will
A tree with tongues will grow.
To My Friends
YOU feeble few that hold me somewhat more
Than all I am; base clay and spittle joined
To shape an aimless whim substantial; coined
Amiss one idle hour, this heart, though poor,—
O golden host I count upon the ends
Of one bare hand, with fingers still to spare,—