A Man's Life Of Any

To Feel Forever Its Soft Fall And Swell, Awake For Ever In A Sweet Unrest, Still, Still To Hear Her Tender-taken Breath, And So Live Ever-or Else Swoon In Death.

Literary Men Are . . . A Perpetual Priesthood.

I Do Think Better Of Womankind Than To Suppose They Care Whether Mister John Keats Five Feet High Likes Them Or Not.

There Is A Budding Morrow In Midnight.

Thou, Silent Form, Dost Tease Us Out Of Thought As Doth Eternity.