The Poetry Of Earth Is Never Dead

My Chest Of Books Divide Amongst My Friends.

I Should Write For The Mere Yearning And Fondness I Have For The Beautiful, Even If My Night's Labors Should Be Burnt Every Morning And No Eye Shine Upon Them.

There Is An Electric Fire In Human Nature Tending To Purify - So That Among These Human Creatures There Is Continually Some Birth Of New Heroism. The Pity Is That We Must Wonder At It, As We Should At Finding A Pearl In Rubbish.

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.

Should Disappointment, Parent Of Despair, Strive For Her Son To Seize My Careless Heart; When, Like A Cloud, He Sits Upon The Air, Preparing On His Spell-bound Prey To Dart: Chase Him Away, Sweet Hope, With Visage Bright, And Fright Him As The Morning Frightens Night!