Thou Foster-child Of Silence And Slow Time.

For Poesy Alone Can Tell Her Dreams, With The Fine Spell Of Words Alone Can Save Imagination From The Sable Charm And Dumb Enchantment. Who Alive Can Say, ‘thou Art No Poet May’st Not Tell Thy Dreams?’ Since Every Man Whose Soul Is Not A Clod Hath Visions, And Would Speak, If He Had Loved And Been Well Nurtured In His Mother Tongue. Whether The Dream Now Purpos’d To Rehearse Be Poet’s Or Fanatic’s Will Be Known When This Warm Scribe My Hand Is In The Grave.

She Press'd His Hand In Slumber; So Once More He Could Not Help But Kiss Her And Adore.

You Cannot Conceive How I Ache To Be With You: How I Would Die For One Hour.

My Chest Of Books Divide Amongst My Friends.

With A Great Poet The Sense Of Beauty Overcomes Every Other Consideration, Or Rather Obliterates All Consideration.