Ah, Nothing Comes To Us Too Soon

When Pride Thaws, Look For Floods.

When Night Hath Set Her Silver Lamp High, Then Is The Time For Study.

Poetry Is Itself A Thing Of God; He Made His Prophets Poets; And The More We Feel Of Poesie Do We Become Like God In Love And Power,-under-makers.

How Slight A Chance May Raise Or Sink A Soul!

Dewdrops, Nature's Tears, Which She Sheds In Her Own Breast For The Fair Which Die. The Sun Insists On Gladness; But At Night, When He Is Gone, Poor Nature Loves To Weep.