The Redbreast Whistles From A Garden-croft; And

His Religion At Best Is An Anxious Wish,-like That Of Rabelais, A Great Perhaps.

Darkling I Listen; And, For Many A Time I Have Been Half In Love With Easeful Death, Called Him Soft Names In Many A Muse' D Rhyme, To Take Into The Air My Quiet Breath; Now More Than Ever Seems It Rich To Die, To Cease Upon The Midnight With No Pain, While Thou Art Pouring Forth Thy Soul Abroad In Such An Ecstasy!

Four Seasons Fill The Measure Of The Year; There Are Four Seasons In The Minds Of Men.

Give Me Books, French Wine, Fruit, Fine Weather And A Little Music Played Out Of Doors By Somebody I Do Not Know.

But Were There Ever Any Writhed Not At Passed Joy?