And When Once The Young Heart Of

The True Poet Dreams Being Awake.

We Are Nothing; Less Than Nothing, And Dreams. We Are Only What Might Have Been.

She Unbent Her Mind Afterwards - Over A Book.

Who Has Not Felt How Sadly Sweet The Dream Of Home, The Dream Of Home, Steals O'er The Heart, Too Soon To Fleet, When Far O'er Sea Or Land We Roam?

I Could Never Hate Anyone I Knew.