What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?

Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.

Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a muse' d rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!

Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, Lover of loneliness, and wandering, Of upcast eye, and tender pondering! Thee must I praise above all other glories That smile us on to tell delightful stories.

I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.

You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest.