I Live Not In Myself, But I

Then Stirs The Feeling Infinite, So Felt In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

Sorrow Preys Upon Its Solitude, And Nothing More Diverts It From Its Sad Visions Of The Other World Than Calling It At Moments Back To This. The Busy Have No Time For Tears.

Most Glorious Night! Thou Wert Not Sent For Slumber!

For The Angel Of Death Spread His Wings On The Blast, And Breathed In The Face Of The Foe As He Passed; And The Eyes Of The Sleepers Waxed Deadly And Chill, And Their Hearts But Once Heaved, And For Ever Grew Still!

Whatsoever Thy Birth, Thou Wert A Beautiful Thought, And Softly Bodied Forth.