How Wonderful Is Death! Death And His

Revenge And Wrong Bring Forth Their Kind; The Foul Cubs Like Their Parents Are.

[l]ike Thee To Those In Sorrow, Comes To Bid A Sweet Good-morrow To The Rough Year Just Awake In Its Cradle On The Brake. The Brightest Hour Of Unborn Spring, Through The Winter Wandering, Found, It Seems, The Halcyon Morn To Hoar February Born.

O, Wind, If Winter Comes, Can Spring Be Far Behind?

All High Poetry Is Infinite; It Is As The First Acorn, Which Contained All Oaks Potentially.

Peace, Peace! He Is Not Dead, He Doth Not Sleep - He Hath Awakened From The Dream Of Life - 'tis We, Who Lost In Stormy Visions, Keep With Phantoms An Unprofitable Strife.