The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.

Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.

But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.

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.

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

What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.

In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .