Here Lies One Whose Name Was Writ

To Hope "when By My Solitary Hearth I Sit, And Hateful Thoughts Enwrap My Soul In Gloom; When No Fair Dreams Before My 'mind's Eye' Flit, And The Bare Heath Of Life Presents No Bloom; Sweet Hope, Ethereal Balm Upon Me Shed, And Wave Thy Silver Pinions O'er My Head.

How Does The Poet Speak To Men With Power, But By Being Still More A Man Than They

She Press'd His Hand In Slumber; So Once More He Could Not Help But Kiss Her And Adore.

Much Have I Traveled In The Realms Of Gold, And Many Goodly States And Kingdoms Seen.

The Poetry Of Earth Is Never Dead When All The Birds Are Faint With The Hot Sun, And Hide I Cooling Trees, A Voice Will Run From Hedge To Hedge About The New-mown Mead.