Who gives himself with his alms feeds three,—

Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me.

The Vision of Sir Launfal. Part Second. viii.

There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one,

Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on.

A Fable for Critics.

Nature fits all her children with something to do.

A Fable for Critics.

Ez fer war, I call it murder,—

There you hev it plain an' flat;