It Is A Flaw In Happiness To

Through The Dancing Poppies Stole A Breeze, Most Softly Lulling To My Soul.

Load Every Rift With Ore.

There Is Not A Fiercer Hell Than The Failure In A Great Object.

Let Us Away, My Love, With Happy Speed; There Are No Ears To Hear, Or Eyes To See, - Drown'd All In Rhenish And The Sleepy Mead. Awake! Arise! My Love And Fearless Be, For O'er The Southern Moors I Have A Home For Thee.

Works Of Genius Are The First Things In The World.