I Have So Much Of You In

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

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

In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy Brook, Thy Bubblings Ne'er Remember Apollo's Summer Look; But With A Sweet Forgetting, They Stay Their Crystal Fretting, Never, Never Petting About The Frozen Time.

Adieu! Adieu! Thy Plaintive Anthem Fades Past The Near Meadows, Over The Still Stream, Up The Hill-side; And Now 'tis Buried Deep In The Next Valley-glades: Was It A Vision, Or A Waking Dream? Fled Is That Music:--do I Wake Or Sleep?

A Moment's Thought Is Passion's Passing Knell.