Fanatics Have Their Dreams, Wherewith They Weave

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 Thought, The Deadly Thought Of Solitude.

When I Have Fears That I May Ceace To Be, Before My Pen Has Gleaned My Teaming Brain".

No Stir Of Air Was There, Not So Much Life As On A Summer's Day Robs Not One Light Seed From The Feather'd Grass, But Where The Dead Leaf Fell, There Did It Rest.

The Roaring Of The Wind Is My Wife And The Stars Through The Window Pane Are My Children.