Heard Melodies Are Sweet, But Those Unheard

Let Us Open Our Leaves Like A Flower, And Be Passive And Receptive.

For Poesy Alone Can Tell Her Dreams, With The Fine Spell Of Words Alone Can Save Imagination From The Sable Charm And Dumb Enchantment. Who Alive Can Say, ‘thou Art No Poet May’st Not Tell Thy Dreams?’ Since Every Man Whose Soul Is Not A Clod Hath Visions, And Would Speak, If He Had Loved And Been Well Nurtured In His Mother Tongue. Whether The Dream Now Purpos’d To Rehearse Be Poet’s Or Fanatic’s Will Be Known When This Warm Scribe My Hand Is In The Grave.

I Am Certain Of Nothing But The Holiness Of The Heart's Affections, And The Truth Of Imagination.

In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy Tree, Thy Branches Ne'er Remember Their Green Felicity.

O Latest Born And Loveliest Vision Far Of All Olympus' Faded Hierarchy.