Thou Art A Dreaming Thing, A Fever

Sometimes Goldfinches One By One Will Drop From Low Hung Branches; Little Space They Stop; But Sip, And Twitter, And Their Feathers Sleek; Then Off At Once, As In A Wanton Freak: Or Perhaps, To Show Their Black, And Golden Wings Pausing Upon Their Yellow Flutterings.

O For A Life Of Sensations Rather Than Of Thoughts!

I Will Imagine You Venus Tonight And Pray, Pray, Pray To Your Star Like A Heathen.

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.

If Poetry Does Not Come As Naturally As Leaves To A Tree, Then It Better Not Come At All.