I Awoke One Day To

Lovers May Be And Indeed Generally Are Enemies, But They Never Can Be Friends, Because There Must Always Be A Spice Of Jealousy And A Something Of Self In All Their Speculations.

It Is Singular How Soon We Lose The Impression Of What Ceases To Be Constantly Before Us. A Year Impairs, A Luster Obliterates. There Is Little Distinct Left Without An Effort Of Memory, Then Indeed The Lights Are Rekindled For A Moment - But Who Can Be Sure That The Imagination Is Not The Torch-bearer?

Whatsoever Thy Birth, Thou Wert A Beautiful Thought, And Softly Bodied Forth.

The Simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, Both By Precept And Example, Shows / That Prose Is Verse, And Verse Is Merely Prose.

Fair Greece! Sad Relic Of Departed Worth! Immortal, Though No More! Though Fallen, Great!