Open Afresh Your Rounds Of Starry Folds,

If I Should Die, I Have Left No Immortal Work Behind Me — Nothing To Make My Friends Proud Of My Memory — But I Have Loved The Principle Of Beauty In All Things, And If I Had Had Time I Would Have Made Myself Remembered.

I Am Certain Of Nothing But The Holiness Of The Heart's Affections, And The Truth Of Imagination.

Ask Yourself My Love Whether You Are Not Very Cruel To Have So Entrammelled Me, So Destroyed My Freedom. Will You Confess This In The Letter You Must Write Immediately, And Do All You Can To Console Me In It — Make It Rich As A Draught Of Poppies To Intoxicate Me —write The Softest Words And Kiss Them That I May At Least Touch My Lips Where Yours Have Been. For Myself I Know Not How To Express My Devotion To So Fair A Form: I Want A Brighter Word Than Bright, A Fairer Word Than Fair.

She Press'd His Hand In Slumber; So Once More He Could Not Help But Kiss Her And Adore.

If Poetry Does Not Come As Naturally As Leaves To A Tree, Then It Better Not Come At All.