How softly summer shuts, without the creaking of a door.

Drunkards of summer are quite as frequent as Drunkards of wine.

PHOSPHORESCENCE. Now there's a word to lift your hat to... to find that phosphorescence, that light within, that's the genius behind poetry.

I stepped from plank to plank So slow and cautiously; The stars about my head I felt, About my feet the sea. I knew not but the next Would be my final inch,— This gave me that precarious gait Some call experience.

Nothing is the force that renovates the World.

Within thy Grave! Oh no, but on some other flight - Thou only camest to mankind To rend it with Good night

in this short life that only lasts ah hour how much-how little-is within our power.