The Lily Is All In White, Like

O Bed! O Bed! Delicious Bed! That Heaven Upon Earth To The Weary Head.

Such A Blush In The Midst Of Brown Was Born, Like Red Poppies Grown With Corn.

What Is A Modern Poet's Fate? / To Write His Thoughts Upon A Slate; / The Critic Spits On What Is Done, / Gives It A Wipe - And All Is Gone.

Father Of Rosy Day, No More Thy Clouds Of Incense Rise; But Waking Flow'rs, At Morning Hours, Give Out Their Sweets To Meet Thee In The Skies.

And There Is Even A Happiness That Makes The Heart Afraid.