Poetry Should Only Occupy The Idle.

On The Ear Drops The Light Drip Of The Suspended Oar.

In Solitude, When We Are Least Alone.

Those Who Will Not Reason, Are Bigots, Those Who Cannot, Are Fools, And Those Who Dare Not, Are Slaves.

Roll On, Thou Deep And Dark Blue Ocean

Sorrow Preys Upon Its Solitude, And Nothing More Diverts It From Its Sad Visions Of The Other World Than Calling It At Moments Back To This. The Busy Have No Time For Tears.