I Had A Dove And The Sweet

Deep In The Shady Sadness Of A Vale Far Sunken From The Healthy Breath Of Morn, Far From The Fiery Noon And Eve's One Star, Sat Gray-haired Saturn, Quiet As A Stone, Still As The Silence Round About His Lair.

When The Melancholy Fit Shall Fall Sudden From Heaven Like A Weeping Cloud, That Fosters The Droop-headed Flowers All, And Hides The Green Hill In An April Shroud; Then Glut Thy Sorrow On A Morning Rose.

The World Is Too Brutal For Me-i Am Glad There Is Such A Thing As The Grave-i Am Sure I Shall Never Have Any Rest Till I Get There.

All Writing Is A Form Of Prayer.

Every Fresh Experience Points Out Some Form Of Error Which We Shall Afterwards Carefully Avoid.