We Know Not What We Do When

Music, When Soft Voices Die, Vibrates In The Memory; Odours, When Sweet Violets Sicken, Live Within The Sense They Quicken. Rose Leaves, When The Rose Is Dead, Are Heap'd For The Belovèd's Bed; And So Thy Thoughts, When Thou Art Gone, Love Itself Shall Slumber On.

A Single Word Even May Be A Spark Of Inextinguishable Thought

Thou Shoreless Flood, Which In Thy Ebb And Flow Claspest The Limits Of Mortality.

O, Wind, If Winter Comes, Can Spring Be Far Behind?

It Is Vain Philosophy That Supposes More Causes Than Are Exactly Adequate To Explain The Phenomena Of Things.