Bards Of Passion And Of Mirth, Ye

This Living Hand, Now Warm And Capable Of Earnest Grasping, Would, If It Were Cold And In The Icy Silence Of The Tomb, So Haunt Thy Days And Chill Thy Dreaming Nights That Thou Would Wish Thine Own Heart Dry Of Blood, So In My Veins Red Life Might Stream Again, And Thou Be Conscience-calm'd. See, Here It Is-- I Hold It Towards You.

A Drainless Shower Of Light Is Poesy: 'tis The Supreme Of Power; 'tis Might Half Slumbering On Its Own Right Arm.

Of Love, That Fairest Joys Give Most Unrest.

Can Death Be Sleep, When Life Is But A Dream, And Scenes Of Bliss Pass As A Phantom By? ---"on Death

You Are Always New. The Last Of Your Kisses Was Ever The Sweetest; The Last Smile The Brightest; The Last Movement The Gracefullest. When You Pass'd My Window Home Yesterday, I Was Fill'd With As Much Admiration As If I Had Then Seen You For The First Time...even If You Did Not Love Me I Could Not Help An Entire Devotion To You.