When We Two Parted In Silence And

There's Music In The Sighing Of A Reed; There's Music In The Gushing Of A Rill; There's Music In All Things, If Men Had Ears; The Earth Is But The Music Of The Spheres.

And Doubt And Discord Step 'twixt Thine And Thee.

One Hates An Author That's All Author.

Nothing So Difficult As A Beginning In Poesy, Unless Perhaps The End.

Damn Description, It Is Always Disgusting.