Books Are Men Of Higher Stature.

Think, In Mounting Higher, The Angels Would Press On Us, And Aspire To Drop Some Golden Orb Of Perfect Song Into Our Deep, Dear Silence.

The Great Chasm Between The Thing I Say, And The Thing I Would Say, Would Be Quite Dispiriting To Me, In Spite Even Of Such Kindnesses As Yours, If The Desire Did Not Master The Despondency.

I Wish I Were The Lily's Leaf To Fade Upon That Bosom Warm, Content To Wither, Pale And Brief, The Trophy Of Thy Paler Form.

Death Forerunneth Love To Win "sweetest Eyes Were Ever Seen."

There Are Nettles Everywhere, But Smooth, Green Grasses Are More Common Still; The Blue Of Heaven Is Larger Than The Cloud.