Thou Foster-child Of Silence And Slow Time.

I Am Certain Of Nothing But The Holiness Of The Heart's Affections, And The Truth Of Imagination.

O Let Me Lead Her Gently O'er The Brook, Watch Her Half-smiling Lips And Downward Look; O Let Me For One Moment Touch Her Wrist; Let Me One Moment To Her Breathing List; And As She Leaves Me, May She Often Turn Her Fair Eyes Looking Through Her Locks Auburne.

The Thought, The Deadly Thought Of Solitude.

I Think I Shall Be Among The English Poets After My Death.

Or Thou Might'st Better Listen To The Wind, Whose Language Is To Thee A Barren Noise, Though It Blows Legend-laden Through The Trees.