The Moon Is At Her Full, And

The Hushed Winds Their Sabbath Keep.

But 'neath Yon Crimson Tree Lover To Listening Maid Might Breathe His Flame, Nor Mark, Within Its Roseate Canopy, Her Blush Of Maiden Shame.

And At My Silent Window-sill The Jessamine Peeps In.

The February Sunshine Steeps Your Boughs And Tints The Buds And Swells The Leaves Within.

Poetry Is That Art Which Selects And Arranges The Symbols Of Thought In Such A Manner As To Excite The Imagination The Most Powerfully And Delightfully.