The Excellence Of Every Art Is Its

I Stood Tip-toe Upon A Little Hill, The Air Was Cooling, And So Very Still, That The Sweet Buds Which With A Modest Pride Pull Droopingly, In Slanting Curve Aside, Their Scantly Leaved, And Finely Tapering Stems, Had Not Yet Lost Those Starry Diadems Caught From The Early Sobbing Of The Morn.

When It Is Moving On Luxurious Wings, The Soul Is Lost In Pleasant Smotherings.

On A Lone Winter Evening, When The Frost Has Wrought A Silence.

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

O For A Life Of Sensations Rather Than Of Thoughts!