There Is A Budding Tomorrow In Midnight.

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

Who Would Wish To Be Among The Commonplace Crowd Of The Little Famous - Who Are Each Individually Lost In A Throng Made Up Of Themselves?

In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy Brook, Thy Bubblings Ne'er Remember Apollo's Summer Look; But With A Sweet Forgetting, They Stay Their Crystal Fretting, Never, Never Petting About The Frozen Time.

Pensive They Sit, And Roll Their Languid Eyes.

I Cannot See What Flowers Are At My Feet, Nor What Soft Incense Hangs Upon The Boughs, But, In Embalmed Darkness, Guess Each Sweet.