Whatever's Lost, It First Was Won.

New Angel Mine, Unhoped For In The World!

That Headlong Ivy! Not A Leaf Will Grow But Thinking Of A Wreath, . . . I Like Such Ivy; Bold To Leap A Height 'twas Strong To Climb! As Good To Grow On Graves As Twist About A Thyrsus; Pretty Too (and That's Not Ill) When Twisted Round A Comb.

The Large White Owl That With Eye Is Blind, That Hath Sate For Years In The Old Tree Hollow, Is Carried Away In A Gust Of Wind.

I Begin To Think That None Are So Bold As The Timid, When They Are Fairly Roused.

It Was Not The Apple On The Tree But The Pair On The Ground That Caused The Trouble In The Garden Of Eden.