How softly summer shuts, without the creaking of a door.
Judge tenderly of me.
It is true that the unknown is the largest need of the intellect, though for it, no one thinks to thank God.
Apparently with no surprise To any happy Flower The Frost beheads it at its play -- In accidental power -- The blonde Assassin passes on -- The Sun proceeds unmoved To measure off another Day For an Approving God.
One need not be a chamber to be haunted.
I hope your rambles have been sweet, and your reveries spacious