I Compare Human Life To

A Little Noiseless Noise Among The Leaves, Born Of The Very Sigh That Silence Heaves.

We Have Woven A Web, You And I, Attached To This World But A Separate World Of Our Own Invention.

Is There Another Life? Shall I Awake And Find All This A Dream? There Must Be We Cannot Be Created For This Sort Of Suffering.

A Long Poem Is A Test Of Invention Which I Take To Be The Polar Star Of Poetry, As Fancy Is The Sails, And Imagination The Rudder.

I Had A Dove And The Sweet Dove Died; And I Have Thought It Died Of Grieving: O, What Could It Grieve For? Its Feet Were Tied, With A Silken Thread Of My Own Hands' Weaving.