Heed Not The Night; A Summer Lodge

The Sad And Solemn Night Hath Yet Her Multitude Of Cheerful Fires; The Glorious Host Of Light Walk The Dark Hemisphere Till She Retires; All Through Her Silent Watches, Gliding Slow, Her Constellations Come, And Climb The Heavens, And Go.

Remorse Is Virtue's Root; Its Fair Increase Is Fruits Of Innocence And Blessedness.

Maidens Hearts Are Always Soft: Would That Men's Were Truer!

Poetry Is The Eloquence Of Verse.

On Rolls The Stream With A Perpetual Sigh; The Rocks Moan Wildly As It Passes By; Hyssop And Wormwood Border All The Strand, And Not A Flower Adorns The Dreary Land.