Scenery Is Fine - But

I Think I Shall Be Among The English Poets After My Death.

Here Lies One Whose Name Was Writ In Water.

Thou Art A Dreaming Thing, A Fever Of Thyself.

O For Ten Years, That I May Overwhelm / Myself In Poesy; So I May Do The Deed / That My Own Soul Has To Itself Decreed.

Bright Star, Would I Were Steadfast As Thou Art-- Not In Lone Splendour Hung Aloft The Night And Watching, With Eternal Lids Apart, Like Nature's Patient, Sleepless Eremite.