A little Madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King.

If Aims impel these Astral Ones The ones allowed to know Know that which makes them as forgot As Dawn forgets them now

Love can do all but raise the Dead I doubt if even that From such a giant were withheld Were flesh equivalent But love is tired and must sleep, And hungry and must graze And so abets the shining Fleet Till it is out of gaze.

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege I think.

Longing, it may be, is the gift no other gift supplies.

I dwell in possiblities.

She died--this was the way she died; And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun. Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.