The appetite for silence is seldom an acquired taste.
I cannot help esteem The 'Bird within the Hand' Superior to the one The 'Bush' may yield me Or may not Too late to choose again
Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.
To see the Summer Sky Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie— True Poems flee—
I miss the grasshoppers much, but suppose it is all for the best. I should become too much attached to a trotting world.
If Aims impel these Astral Ones The ones allowed to know Know that which makes them as forgot As Dawn forgets them now