You Speak Of Lord Byron And Me;

Dancing Music, Music Sad, Both Together, Sane And Mad.

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.

Where Soil Is, Men Grow, Whether To Weeds Or Flowers.

Fade Far Away, Dissolve, And Quite Forget.

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.