When Bounteous Autumn Rears Her Head, He

Our Souls Sit Close And Silently Within, And Their Own Web From Their Own Entrails Spin; And When Eyes Meet Far Off, Our Sense Is Such, That, Spider-like, We Feel The Tenderest Touch.

Of All The Tyrannies On Human Kind The Worst Is That Which Persecutes The Mind.

For Those Whom God To Ruin Has Design'd, He Fits For Fate, And First Destroys Their Mind.

Railing In Other Men May Be A Crime, But Ought To Pass For Mere Instinct In Him: Instinct He Follows And No Further Knows, For To Write Verse With Him Is To Transprose.

Joy Rul'd The Day, And Love The Night.