You Speak Of Lord Byron And Me;

Much Have I Traveled In The Realms Of Gold, And Many Goodly States And Kingdoms Seen; Round Many Western Islands Have I Been Which Bards In Fealty To Apollo Hold. Oft Of One Wide Expanse Had I Been Told That Deep-brow'd Homer Ruled As His Demesne, Yet Did I Never Breathe Its Pure Serene Till I Heard Chapman Speak Out Loud And Bold: Then Felt I Like Some Watcher Of The Skies When A New Planet Swims Into His Ken; Or Like Stout Cortez When With Eagle Eyes He Stared At The Pacific, And All His Men Look'd At Each Other With A Wild Surmise, Silent, Upon A Peak In Darien.

Where Soil Is, Men Grow, Whether To Weeds Or Flowers.

You Cannot Conceive How I Ache To Be With You: How I Would Die For One Hour.

It Keeps Eternal Whisperings Around Desolate Shores

Knowledge Enormous Makes A God Of Me.