To Silence Gossip, Don't Repeat It.

Soft Closer Of Our Eyes! Low Murmur Of Tender Lullabies!

Wherein Lies Happiness? In That Which Becks Our Ready Minds To Fellowship Divine, A Fellowship With Essence; Till We Shine, Full Alchemiz’d, And Free Of Space. Behold The Clear Religion Of Heaven!

His Religion At Best Is An Anxious Wish,-like That Of Rabelais, A Great Perhaps.

There's A Blush For Won't, And A Blush For Shan't, And A Blush For Having Done It: There's A Blush For Thought And A Blush For Naught, And A Blush For Just Begun It.

Poetry Should Surprise By A Fine Excess And Not By Singularity, It Should Strike The Reader As A Wording Of His Own Highest Thoughts, And Appear Almost A Remembrance.