If Something Is Not Beautiful, It Is

Nothing Ever Becomes Real Till Experienced – Even A Proverb Is No Proverb Until Your Life Has Illustrated It

Fast Fading Violets Cover'd Up In Leaves; And Mid-may's Eldest Child, The Coming Musk-rose, Full Of Dewy Wine, The Murmurous Haunt Of Flies On Summer Eves.

To Feel Forever Its Soft Fall And Swell, Awake For Ever In A Sweet Unrest, Still, Still To Hear Her Tender-taken Breath, And So Live Ever-or Else Swoon In Death.

My Heart Aches, And A Drowsy Numbness Pains/ My Sense, As Though Of Hemlock I Had Drunk.

I Never Can Feel Certain Of Any Truth, But From A Clear Perception Of Its Beauty.