My Chest Of Books Divide Amongst My

The Excellence Of Every Art Is Its Intensity.

So, When Dark Thoughts My Boding Spirit Shroud, Sweet Hope! Celestial Influence Round Me Shed Waving Thy Silver Pinions O'er My Head.

We Have Woven A Web, You And I, Attached To This World But A Separate World Of Our Own Invention.

There Is A Budding Morrow In Midnight.

I Stood Tip-toe Upon A Little Hill, The Air Was Cooling, And So Very Still, That The Sweet Buds Which With A Modest Pride Pull Droopingly, In Slanting Curve Aside, Their Scantly Leaved, And Finely Tapering Stems, Had Not Yet Lost Those Starry Diadems Caught From The Early Sobbing Of The Morn.