You Might Curb Your Magnanimity, And Be

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

I Myself Am Pursuing The Same Instinctive Course As The Veriest Human Animal You Can Think Of I Am, However Young, Writing At Random Straining At Particles Of Light In The Midst Of A Great Darkness Without Knowing The Bearing Of Any One Assertion, Of Any One Opinion. Yet May I Not In This Be Free From Sin?

So Let Me Be Thy Choir, And Make A Moan Upon The Midnight Hours.

The Thought, The Deadly Thought Of Solitude.

Fast Fading Violets Cover'd Up In Leaves; And Mid-may's Eldest Child, The Coming Musk-rose, Full Of Dewy Wine, The Murmurous Haunt Of Flies On Summer Eves.