I Don't Need The Stars In The

Even Bees, The Little Almsmen Of Spring Bowers, Know There Is Richest Juice In Poison-flowers.

You Are Always New. The Last Of Your Kisses Was Even The Sweetest; The Last Smile The Brightest; The Last Movement The Gracefullest.

Real Are The Dreams Of Gods, And Smoothly Pass Their Pleasures In A Long Immortal Dream.

All Clean And Comfortable I Sit Down To Write.

A Little Noiseless Noise Among The Leaves, Born Of The Very Sigh That Silence Heaves.