Where Are The Songs Of Spring? Aye,

Sometimes Goldfinches One By One Will Drop From Low Hung Branches; Little Space They Stop; But Sip, And Twitter, And Their Feathers Sleek; Then Off At Once, As In A Wanton Freak: Or Perhaps, To Show Their Black, And Golden Wings Pausing Upon Their Yellow Flutterings.

Like A Mermaid In Sea-weed, She Dreams Awake, Trembling In Her Soft And Chilly Nest.

The Poetry Of The Earth Is Never Dead.

Where The Nightingale Doth Sing Not A Senseless, Tranced Thing, But Divine Melodious Truth.

A Poet Is The Most Unpoetical Of Anything In Existence; Because He Has No Identity He Is Continually Informing And Filling Some Other Body.