All Clean And Comfortable I Sit Down

Through Buried Paths, Where Sleepy Twilight Dreams The Summer Time Away.

The World Is Too Brutal For Me-i Am Glad There Is Such A Thing As The Grave-i Am Sure I Shall Never Have Any Rest Till I Get There.

You Cannot Conceive How I Ache To Be With You: How I Would Die For One Hour.

Music's Golden Tongue Flatter'd To Tears This Aged Man And Poor.

If Poetry Does Not Come As Naturally As Leaves To A Tree, Then It Better Not Come At All.