Over my head his arm he flung, Against the world.
A people is but the attempt of many To rise to the completer life of one; And those who live as models for the mass Are singly of more value than they all.
Men are not angels, neither are they brutes.
To me at least was never evening yet, but seemed far beautifuller than its day.
All poetry is difficult to read - The sense of it anyhow.
The body sprang At once to the height, and stayed; but the soul,-no!