Come, Come Thou Bleak December Wind, And

For Mother's Sake The Child Was Dear, And Dearer Was The Mother For The Child.

Of No Agenor Of Any Religion, Or Party Or Profession. The Body And Substance Of His Works Came Out Of The Unfathomable Depths Of His Own Oceanic Mind.

No Voice; But Oh - The Silence Sank Like Music On My Heart.

If A Man Could Pass Through Paradise In A Dream, And Have A Flower Presented To Him As A Pledge That His Soul Had Really Been There, And If He Found That Flower In His Hand When He Awake - Aye, What Then?

Poetry Is Certainly Something More Than Good Sense, But It Must Be Good Sense, At All Events, Just As A Palace Is More Than A House, But It Must Be A House, At Least.