O, Sorrow! Why Dost Borrow Heart's Lightness

His Old Right Hand Lay Nerveless, Listless, Dead, Unsceptred; And His Realmless Eyes Were Closed.

I Would Jump Down Etna For Any Public Good - But I Hate A Mawkish Popularity.

What Is There In Thee, Moon! That Thou Should'st Move My Heart So Potently?

In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy Brook, Thy Bubblings Ne'er Remember Apollo's Summer Look; But With A Sweet Forgetting, They Stay Their Crystal Fretting, Never, Never Petting About The Frozen Time.

Literary Men Are . . . A Perpetual Priesthood.