My Friends Should Drink A Dozen Of

The Imagination May Be Compared To Adam's Dream-he Awoke And Found It Truth.

I Have Met With Women Whom I Really Think Would Like To Be Married To A Poem And To Be Given Away By A Novel.

I Had A Dove And The Sweet Dove Died; And I Have Thought It Died Of Grieving: O, What Could It Grieve For? Its Feet Were Tied, With A Silken Thread Of My Own Hands' Weaving.

O Solitude! If I Must With Thee Dwell, Let It Not Be Among The Jumbled Heap Of Murky Buildings: Climb With Me The Steep,-- Nature's Observatory--whence The Dell, In Flowery Slopes, Its River's Crystal Swell, May Seem A Span; Let Me Thy Vigils Keep 'mongst Boughs Pavilion'd, Where The Deer's Swift Leap Startles The Wild Bee From The Foxglove Bell.

A Little Noiseless Noise Among The Leaves, Born Of The Very Sigh That Silence Heaves.