To Hope "When by my solitary hearth I sit, And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom; When no fair dreams before my 'mind's eye' flit, And the bare heath of life presents no bloom; Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head.

one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another

O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.

I want a brighter word than bright

Thou art a dreaming thing, A fever of thyself.

Or thou might'st better listen to the wind, Whose language is to thee a barren noise, Though it blows legend-laden through the trees.

And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.