But Were There Ever Any Writhed Not

Health Is My Expected Heaven.

Thou Art A Dreaming Thing, A Fever Of Thyself.

In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy Tree, Thy Branches Ne'er Remember Their Green Felicity.

I Think I Shall Be Among The English Poets After My Death.

Can Death Be Sleep, When Life Is But A Dream, And Scenes Of Bliss Pass As A Phantom By? ---"on Death