... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.

The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.

It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.

The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.

Faith is a passionate intuition.

Love betters what is best

Earth helped him with the cry of blood.