From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.

A lawyer art thou? Draw not nigh! Go, carry to some fitter place The keenness of that practised eye, The hardness of that sallow face.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.

Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.

Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.

Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.