What Is More Gentle Than A Wind

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

Much Have I Travell'd In The Realms Of Gold.

Season Of Mists And Mellow Fruitfulness, Close Bosom-friend Of The Maturing Sun; Conspiring With Him How To Load And Bless With Fruit The Vines That Round The Thatch-eves Run; To Bend With Apples The Moss’d Cottage-trees, And Fill All Fruit With Ripeness To The Core; To Swell The Gourd, And Plump The Hazel Shells With A Sweet Kernel; To Set Budding More, And Still More, Later Flowers For The Bees, Until They Think Warm Days Will Never Cease, For Summer Has O’er-brimm’d Their Clammy Cells.

Thou Art A Dreaming Thing, A Fever Of Thyself.

Dry Your Eyes O Dry Your Eyes, For I Was Taught In Paradise To Ease My Breast Of Melodies.