The Poppies Hung Dew-dabbled On Their Stalks.

Poetry Should Be Great And Unobtrusive, A Thing Which Enters Into One's Soul, And Does Not Startle It Or Amaze It With Itself, But With Its Subject.

Should Disappointment, Parent Of Despair, Strive For Her Son To Seize My Careless Heart; When, Like A Cloud, He Sits Upon The Air, Preparing On His Spell-bound Prey To Dart: Chase Him Away, Sweet Hope, With Visage Bright, And Fright Him As The Morning Frightens Night!

Thou, Silent Form, Dost Tease Us Out Of Thought As Doth Eternity.

When I Have Fears That I May Ceace To Be, Before My Pen Has Gleaned My Teaming Brain".

To Silence Gossip, Don't Repeat It.