When Night Hath Set Her

When Pride Thaws, Look For Floods.

The Death-bed Of A Day, How Beautiful!

Wan Night, The Shadow Goer, Came Stepping In.

The Poet's Pen Is The True Divining Rod Which Trembles Towards The Inner Founts Of Feeling; Bringing To Light And Use, Else Hid From All, The Many Sweet Clear Sources Which We Have Of Good And Beauty In Our Own Deep Bosoms; And Marks The Variations Of All Mind As Does The Needle.

There Is No Surer Mark Of The Absence Of The Highest Moral And Intellectual Qualities Than A Cold Reception Of Excellence.