His Old Right Hand Lay Nerveless, Listless,

I Never Can Feel Certain Of Any Truth, But From A Clear Perception Of Its Beauty.

Darkling I Listen; And, For Many A Time I Have Been Half In Love With Easeful Death, Called Him Soft Names In Many A Muse' D Rhyme, To Take Into The Air My Quiet Breath; Now More Than Ever Seems It Rich To Die, To Cease Upon The Midnight With No Pain, While Thou Art Pouring Forth Thy Soul Abroad In Such An Ecstasy!

It Keeps Eternal Whisperings Around Desolate Shores

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.

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