A Man's Life Of Any Worth Is

But Were There Ever Any Writhed Not At Passed Joy?

Open Afresh Your Rounds Of Starry Folds, Ye Ardent Marigolds.

I Have Loved The Principle Of Beauty In All Things.

Adieu! Adieu! Thy Plaintive Anthem Fades Past The Near Meadows, Over The Still Stream, Up The Hill-side; And Now 'tis Buried Deep In The Next Valley-glades: Was It A Vision, Or A Waking Dream? Fled Is That Music:--do I Wake Or Sleep?

A Poet Is The Most Unpoetical Of Anything In Existence; Because He Has No Identity He Is Continually Informing And Filling Some Other Body.