Ah! What Would The World

The Day Is Done, And The Darkness Falls From The Wings Of Night, As A Feather Is Wafted Downward From An Eagle In His Flight.

I Feel A Kind Of Reverence For The First Books Of Young Authors. There Is So Much Aspiration In Them, So Much Audacious Hope And Trembling Fear, So Much Of The Heart's History, That All Errors And Shortcomings Are For A While Lost Sight Of In The Amiable Self Assertion Of Youth.

Some Critics Are Like Chimney-sweepers; They Put Out The Fire Below, And Frighten The Swallows From Their Nests Above; They Scrape A Long Time In The Chimney, Cover Themselves With Soot, And Bring Nothing Away But A Bag Of Cinders, And Then Sing From The Top Of The House As If They Had Built It.

When She Had Passed, It Seemed Like The Ceasing Of Exquisite Music.

It Was The Schooner Hesperus, That Sailed The Wintry Sea.