He Who Saddens At Thought Of Idleness

Are There Not Thousands In The World Who Love Their Fellows Even To The Death, Who Feel The Giant Agony Of The World, And More, Like Slaves To Poor Humanity, Labor For Mortal Good?

Pleasure Is Oft A Visitant; But Pain Clings Cruelly To Us.

I Shall Soon Be Laid In The Quiet Grave - Thank God For The Quiet Grave

We Hate Poetry That Has A Palpable Design Upon Us - And If We Do Not Agree, Seems To Put Its Hand In Its Breeches Pocket. Poetry Should Be Great & Unobtrusive, A Thing Which Enters Into One's Soul, And Does Not Startle It Or Amaze It With Itself But With Its Subject. - How Beautiful Are The Retired Flowers! How Would They Lose Their Beauty Were They To Throng Into The Highway Crying Out, "admire Me I Am A Violet! Dote Upon Me I Am A Primrose!"

In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy Brook, Thy Bubblings Ne'er Remember Apollo's Summer Look; But With A Sweet Forgetting, They Stay Their Crystal Fretting, Never, Never Petting About The Frozen Time.