And Shade The Violets, That They May

Was It A Vision Or A Waking Dream? Fled Is That Music--do I Wake Or Sleep?

To Sorrow I Bade Good-morrow, And Thought To Leave Her Far Away Behind; But Cheerly, Cheerly, She Loves Me Dearly: She Is So Constant To Me, And So Kind.

Knowledge Enormous Makes A God Of Me.

The Poetry Of The Earth Is Never Dead.

We Read Fine Things But Never Feel Them To The Full Until We Have Gone The Same Steps As The Author.