There Is A Budding Morrow In Midnight.

Let Us Open Our Leaves Like A Flower, And Be Passive And Receptive.

Thou Art A Dreaming Thing, A Fever Of Thyself.

Darkling I Listen; And, For Many A Time I Have Been Half In Love With Easeful Death, Called Him Soft Names In Many A Muse' D Rhyme, To Take Into The Air My Quiet Breath; Now More Than Ever Seems It Rich To Die, To Cease Upon The Midnight With No Pain, While Thou Art Pouring Forth Thy Soul Abroad In Such An Ecstasy!

There Is Nothing Stable In The World; Uproar's Your Only Music.

I Have Met With Women Whom I Really Think Would Like To Be Married To A Poem And To Be Given Away By A Novel.