My Chest Of Books Divide Amongst My

The Poetry Of Earth Is Never Dead When All The Birds Are Faint With The Hot Sun, And Hide I Cooling Trees, A Voice Will Run From Hedge To Hedge About The New-mown Mead.

Season Of Mists And Mellow Fruitfulness, Close Bosom-friend Of The Maturing Sun.

The Excellence Of Every Art Is Its Intensity.

Soft Closer Of Our Eyes! Low Murmur Of Tender Lullabies!

Even Bees, The Little Almsmen Of Spring Bowers, Know There Is Richest Juice In Poison-flowers.