Sad Patience, Too Near Neighbour To Despair.

We, Peopling The Void Air, Make Gods To Whom To Impute The Ills We Ought To Bear; With God And Fate To Rail At, Suffering Easily.

Culture Is Properly Described As The Love Of Perfection; It Is A Study Of Perfection.

Alas! Is Even Love Too Weak To Unlock The Heart, And Let It Speak?

Once Read Thy Own Breast Right, And Thou Hast Done With Fears.

Ah! Two Desires Toss About The Poet's Feverish Blood; One Drives Him To The World Without, And One To Solitude.