I Have Met With Women

Thou Art A Dreaming Thing, A Fever Of Thyself.

How Does The Poet Speak To Men With Power, But By Being Still More A Man Than They

The Uttered Part Of A Man's Life, Let Us Always Repeat, Bears To The Unuttered, Unconscious Part A Small Unknown Proportion. He Himself Never Knows It, Much Less Do Others.

It Is A Flaw In Happiness To See Beyond Our Bourn, - It Forces Us In Summer Skies To Mourn, It Spoils The Singing Of The Nightingale.

All Clean And Comfortable I Sit Down To Write.