I Shall Soon Be Laid In The

It Is A Flaw In Happiness To See Beyond Our Bourn, - It Forces Us In Summer Skies To Mourn, It Spoils The Singing Of The Nightingale.

... Who Alive Can Say 'thou Art No Poet - Mayst Not Tell Thy Dreams'? Since Every Man Whose Soul Is Not A Clod Hath Visions, And Would Speak, If He Had Loved, And Been Well Nurtured In His Mother Tongue.

What Is There In Thee, Moon! That Thou Should'st Move My Heart So Potently?

I Had A Dove And The Sweet Dove Died; And I Have Thought It Died Of Grieving: O, What Could It Grieve For? Its Feet Were Tied, With A Silken Thread Of My Own Hands' Weaving.

No Stir Of Air Was There, Not So Much Life As On A Summer's Day Robs Not One Light Seed From The Feather'd Grass, But Where The Dead Leaf Fell, There Did It Rest.