As I Lay Asleep In

There Is Eloquence In The Tongueless Wind, And A Melody In The Flowing Brooks And The Rustling Of The Reeds Beside Them, Which By Their Inconceivable Relation To Something Within The Soul, Awaken The Spirits To A Dance Of Breathless Rapture, And Bring Tears Of Mysterious Tenderness To The Eyes, Like The Enthusiasm Of Patriotic Success, Or The Voice Of One Beloved Singing To You Alone.

Less Oft Peace In Shelley's Mind, Than Calm In Waters Seen.

Nothing Of Him That Doth Fade But Doth Suffer A Sea-change Into Something Rich And Strange

The Howl Of Self-interest Is Loud ... But The Heart Is Black Which Throbs Solely To Its Note.

How Wonderful Is Death! Death And His Brother Sleep.