The Silver, Snarling Trumpets 'gan

To One Who Has Been Long In City Pent, ’tis Very Sweet To Look Into The Fair And Open Face Of Heaven, — To Breathe A Prayer Full In The Smile Of The Blue Firmament.

Heard Melodies Are Sweet, But Those Unheard Are Sweeter.

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

Where Are The Songs Of Spring? Aye, Where Are They? Think Not Of Them; Thou Has Thy Music Too.

Literary Men Are . . . A Perpetual Priesthood.