I Compare Human Life To A Large

His Old Right Hand Lay Nerveless, Listless, Dead, Unsceptred; And His Realmless Eyes Were Closed.

What Shocks The Virtuous Philosopher, Delights The Chameleon Poet.

Oh What Can Ail Thee, Knight-at-arms, Alone And Palely Loitering?

The Roaring Of The Wind Is My Wife And The Stars Through The Window Pane Are My Children. The Mighty Abstract Idea I Have Of Beauty In All Things Stifles The More Divided And Minute Domestic Happiness.

If Poetry Does Not Come As Naturally As Leaves To A Tree, Then It Better Not Come At All.