That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.

The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart; he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky!

Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

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.

The very flowers are sacred to the poor.

But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?