This Garden Has A Soul, I Know

Hair Is The Most Delicate And Lasting Of Our Materials, And Survives Us, Like Love. It Is So Light, So Gentle; So Escaping From The Idea Of Death, That, With A Lock Of Hair Belonging To A Child Or Friend, We May Almost Look Up To Heaven And Compare Notes With The Angelic Nature,--may Almost Say, "i Have A Piece Of Thee Here Not Unworthy Of Thy Being Now.

If You Are Melancholy For The First Time, You Will Find, Upon A Little Inquiry, That Others Have Been Melancholy Many Times, And Yet Are Cheerful Now.

Stolen Sweets Are Always Sweeter, Stolen Kisses Much Completer, Stolen Looks Are Nice In Chapels, Stolen, Stolen Be Your Apples.

This Garden Has A Soul, I Know Its Moods.

We Are Slumberous Poppies, Lords Of Lethe Downs, Some Awake And Some Asleep, Sleeping In Our Crowns. What Perchance Our Dreams May Know, Let Our Serious May Know.