You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?

The poetry of speech.

Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;--lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. An, nutbrown partridges! An, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.

By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies.

There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything.

I stood among them, but not of them: in a shroud of thoughts which were not their thoughts.