I Find I Cannot Exist Without Poetry

What Shocks The Virtuous Philosopher, Delights The Chameleon Poet.

I Have Good Reason To Be Content, For Thank God I Can Read And Perhaps Understand Shakespeare To His Depths.

I Had A Dove And The Sweet Dove Died; And I Have Thought It Died Of Grieving: O, What Could It Grieve For? Its Feet Were Tied, With A Silken Thread Of My Own Hands' Weaving.

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

Load Every Rift With Ore.