Poetry Is The Breath Of

It Is A Delicious Moment, Certainly, That Of Being Well Nestled In Bed, And Feeling That You Shall Drop Gently To Sleep. The Good Is To Come, Not Past; The Limbs Have Just Been Tired Enough To Render The Remaining In One Posture Delightful; The Labour Of The Day Is Gone

Did You Ever Observe That Immoderate Laughter Always Ends In A Sigh?

With Spots Of Sunny Openings, And With Nooks To Lie And Read In, Sloping Into Brooks.

Beauty Too Often Sacrifices To Fashion.

The Two Divinest Things This World Has Got,a Lovely Woman In A Rural Spot!