The Poppies Hung Dew-dabbled On Their Stalks.

The World Is Too Brutal For Me-i Am Glad There Is Such A Thing As The Grave-i Am Sure I Shall Never Have Any Rest Till I Get There.

The Roaring Of The Wind Is My Wife And The Stars Through The Window Pane Are My Children. The Mighty Abstract Idea I Have Of Beauty In All Things Stifles The More Divided And Minute Domestic Happiness.

Thou, Silent Form, Dost Tease Us Out Of Thought As Doth Eternity.

And How They Kist Each Other's Tremulous Eyes.

I Will Give You A Definition Of A Proud Man: He Is A Man Who Has Neither Vanity Nor Wisdom One Filled With Hatreds Cannot Be Vain, Neither Can He Be Wise.