Where Are The Forms The Sculptor's Soul

Life Is Too Short For Chess.

None Are So Desolate But Something Dear, Dearer Than Self, Possesses Or Possess'd A Thought, And Claims The Homage Of A Tear.

I Had A Dream, Which Was Not At All A Dream.

Still From The Fount Of Joy's Delicious Springs Some Bitter O'er The Flowers Its Bubbling Venom Flings.

That Music In Itself, Whose Sounds Are Song, The Poetry Of Speech.