My Chest Of Books Divide Amongst My

For Poesy Alone Can Tell Her Dreams, With The Fine Spell Of Words Alone Can Save Imagination From The Sable Charm And Dumb Enchantment. Who Alive Can Say, ‘thou Art No Poet May’st Not Tell Thy Dreams?’ Since Every Man Whose Soul Is Not A Clod Hath Visions, And Would Speak, If He Had Loved And Been Well Nurtured In His Mother Tongue. Whether The Dream Now Purpos’d To Rehearse Be Poet’s Or Fanatic’s Will Be Known When This Warm Scribe My Hand Is In The Grave.

Was It A Vision Or A Waking Dream? Fled Is That Music--do I Wake Or Sleep?

The Days Of Peace And Slumberous Calm Are Fled.

The Redbreast Whistles From A Garden-croft; And Gathering Swallows Twitter In The Skies.

How Does The Poet Speak To Men With Power, But By Being Still More A Man Than They