Alas! When Passion Is Both Meek And

The Excellence Of Every Art Is Its Intensity, Capable Of Making All Disagreeables Evaporate, From Their Being In Close Relationship With Beauty And Truth.

O Let Me Lead Her Gently O'er The Brook, Watch Her Half-smiling Lips And Downward Look; O Let Me For One Moment Touch Her Wrist; Let Me One Moment To Her Breathing List; And As She Leaves Me, May She Often Turn Her Fair Eyes Looking Through Her Locks Auburne.

The Poetry Of Earth Is Never Dead When All The Birds Are Faint With The Hot Sun, And Hide I Cooling Trees, A Voice Will Run From Hedge To Hedge About The New-mown Mead.

Death Is Life's High Meed.

The Public - A Thing I Cannot Help Looking Upon As An Enemy, And Which I Cannot Address Without Feelings Of Hostility.