Load Every Rift With Ore.

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?

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

Fanatics Have Their Dreams, Wherewith They Weave A Paradise For A Sect.

Its Better To Lose Your Ego To The One You Love Than To Lose The One You Love To Your Ego

O For Ten Years, That I May Overwhelm / Myself In Poesy; So I May Do The Deed / That My Own Soul Has To Itself Decreed.