Poetry Is Thoughts That Breathe, And Words

They Hear A Voice In Every Wind, And Snatch A Fearful Joy.

Ye Towers Of Julius, London's Lasting Shame, With Many A Foul And Midnight Murder Fed.

Rich With The Spoils Of Time.

No Further Seek His Merits To Disclose, Or Draw His Frailties From Their Dread Abode (there They Alike In Trembling Hope Repose), The Bosom Of His Father And His God.

The Insect-youth Are On The Wing, Eager To Taste The Honied Spring, And Float Amid The Liquid Noon!