We murder to dissect.

Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

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

If the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus famliarised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to the aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man.

Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.

The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.