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.

The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.

Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.

Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.

One of those heavenly days that cannot die.

To be young was very heaven!