I Find I Cannot Exist

Of Love, That Fairest Joys Give Most Unrest.

The Roaring Of The Wind Is My Wife And The Stars Through The Window Pane Are My Children. The Mighty Abstract Idea I Have Of Beauty In All Things Stifles The More Divided And Minute Domestic Happiness.

There Is A Budding Tomorrow In Midnight.

Through The Sad Heart Of Ruth, When Sick For Home She Stood In Tears Amid The Alien Corn; The Same That Ofttimes Hath Charm'd Magic Casements, Opening On The Foam Of Perilous Seas, In Faery Lands Forlorn.

The Imagination Of A Boy Is Healthy, And The Mature Imagination Of A Man Is Healthy; But There Is A Space Of Life Between, In Which The Soul Is In A Ferment, The Character Undecided, The Way Of Life Uncertain, The Ambition Thick-sighted: Thence Proceeds Mawkishness.