Meditation Here May Think Down Hours To

Perhaps Thou Gav'st Me, Though Unseen, A Kiss; Perhaps A Tear, If Souls Can Weep In Bliss.

Those Flimsy Webs That Break As Soon As Wrought, Attain Not To The Dignity Of Thought.

I Will Venture To Assert, That A Just Translation Of Any Ancient Poet In Rhyme Is Impossible. No Human Ingenuity Can Be Equal To The Task Of Closing Every Couplet With Sounds Homotonous, Expressing At The Same Time The Full Sense, And Only The Full Sense Of His Original.

Remorse, The Fatal Egg That Pleasure Laid.

There Is A Pleasure In Poetic Pains / Which Only Poets Know.