And When Thou Art Weary I'll Find

She Hurried At His Words, Beset With Fears, For There Were Sleeping Dragons All Around.

The Days Of Peace And Slumberous Calm Are Fled.

She Press'd His Hand In Slumber; So Once More He Could Not Help But Kiss Her And Adore.

The Excellence Of Every Art Is Its Intensity.

Adieu! Adieu! Thy Plaintive Anthem Fades Past The Near Meadows, Over The Still Stream, Up The Hill-side; And Now 'tis Buried Deep In The Next Valley-glades: Was It A Vision, Or A Waking Dream? Fled Is That Music:--do I Wake Or Sleep?