I Found The Poems In The Fields

Ah, Words Are Poor Receipts For What Time Hath Stole Away.

I Was Byron And Shakespeare Formerly.

I Am The Self-consumer Of My Woes.

Into The Nothingness Of Scorn And Noise, Into The Living Sea Of Waking Dreams, Where There Is Neither Sense Of Life Or Joys, But The Vast Shipwreck Of My Life's Esteems; And E'en The Dearest--that I Love The Best-- Are Strange--nay, Rather Stranger Than The Rest.

Crowded Places, I Shunned Them As Noises Too Rude / And Flew To The Silence Of Sweet Solitude.