Blessed Is The Healthy Nature; It Is

The Poetry Of The Earth Is Never Dead.

It Keeps Eternal Whisperings Around Desolate Shores

Closer Of Lovely Eyes To Lovely Dreams, Lover Of Loneliness, And Wandering, Of Upcast Eye, And Tender Pondering! Thee Must I Praise Above All Other Glories That Smile Us On To Tell Delightful Stories.

Many A Time I Have Been Half In Love With Easeful Death.

Literary Men Are . . . A Perpetual Priesthood.