We murder to dissect.

The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.

The unconquerable pang of despised love.

Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.

Meek Walton's heavenly memory.

Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.