All writing is a form of prayer.
Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.
Four seasons fill the measure of the year; there are four seasons in the minds of men.
Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---"On death
To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever-or else swoon in death.
When the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.