There Is A Budding Morrow In Midnight.

A Drainless Shower Of Light Is Poesy: 'tis The Supreme Of Power; 'tis Might Half Slumbering On Its Own Right Arm.

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

Beauty Is Truth, Truth Beauty

Literary Men Are . . . A Perpetual Priesthood.

O For The Gentleness Of Old Romance, The Simple Planning Of A Minstrel's Song!