Where The Nightingale Doth Sing Not A

This Living Hand, Now Warm And Capable Of Earnest Grasping, Would, If It Were Cold And In The Icy Silence Of The Tomb, So Haunt Thy Days And Chill Thy Dreaming Nights That Thou Would Wish Thine Own Heart Dry Of Blood, So In My Veins Red Life Might Stream Again, And Thou Be Conscience-calm'd. See, Here It Is-- I Hold It Towards You.

I Find I Cannot Exist Without Poetry

Much Have I Traveled In The Realms Of Gold, And Many Goodly States And Kingdoms Seen.

If Something Is Not Beautiful, It Is Probably Not True.

O For The Gentleness Of Old Romance, The Simple Planning Of A Minstrel's Song!