Death Is Life's High Meed.

I Will Imagine You Venus Tonight And Pray, Pray, Pray To Your Star Like A Heathen.

All Clean And Comfortable I Sit Down To Write.

Asleep In Lap Of Legends Old.

Poetry Should Surprise By A Fine Excess And Not By Singularity, It Should Strike The Reader As A Wording Of His Own Highest Thoughts, And Appear Almost A Remembrance.

When I Behold, Upon The Night's Starr'd Face, Huge Cloudy Symbols Of A High Romance, And Think That I May Never Live To Trace Their Shadows, With The Magic Hand Of Chance.