To Stay Youthful, Stay Useful.

How Beautiful, If Sorrow Had Not Made Sorrow More Beautiful Than Beauty's Self.

Open Afresh Your Rounds Of Starry Folds, Ye Ardent Marigolds.

We Hate Poetry That Has A Palpable Design Upon Us - And If We Do Not Agree, Seems To Put Its Hand In Its Breeches Pocket. Poetry Should Be Great & Unobtrusive, A Thing Which Enters Into One's Soul, And Does Not Startle It Or Amaze It With Itself But With Its Subject. - How Beautiful Are The Retired Flowers! How Would They Lose Their Beauty Were They To Throng Into The Highway Crying Out, "admire Me I Am A Violet! Dote Upon Me I Am A Primrose!"

In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy Tree, Thy Branches Ne'er Remember Their Green Felicity.

A Hope Beyond The Shadow Of A Dream.