What Is More Gentle Than A Wind

And Shade The Violets, That They May Bind The Moss In Leafy Nets.

How Sad It Is When A Luxurious Imagination Is Obliged In Self Defense To Deaden Its Delicacy In Vulgarity, And Riot In Things Attainable That It May Not Have Leisure To Go Mad After Things That Are Not.

No Sooner Had I Stepp'd Into These Pleasures Than I Began To Think Of Rhymes And Measures: The Air That Floated By Me Seem'd To Say 'write! Thou Wilt Never Have A Better Day.

Turn The Key Deftly In The Oiled Wards, And Seal The Hushed Casket Of My Soul.

The Grandeur Of The Dooms We Have Imagined For The Mighty Dead.