I Am In That Temper That If

Sweet Are The Pleasures That To Verse Belong, And Doubly Sweet A Brotherhood In Song.

When The Melancholy Fit Shall Fall Sudden From Heaven Like A Weeping Cloud, That Fosters The Droop-headed Flowers All, And Hides The Green Hill In An April Shroud; Then Glut Thy Sorrow On A Morning Rose.

Literary Men Are . . . A Perpetual Priesthood.

Heard Melodies Are Sweet, But Those Unheard Are Sweeter.

The Air Is All Softness.