Health Is My Expected Heaven.

The Uttered Part Of A Man's Life, Let Us Always Repeat, Bears To The Unuttered, Unconscious Part A Small Unknown Proportion. He Himself Never Knows It, Much Less Do Others.

I Could Be Martyred For My Religion. Love Is My Religion And I Could Die For That. I Could Die For You.

And When Thou Art Weary I'll Find Thee A Bed, Of Mosses And Flowers To Pillow Thy Head.

In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy Brook, Thy Bubblings Ne'er Remember Apollo's Summer Look; But With A Sweet Forgetting, They Stay Their Crystal Fretting, Never, Never Petting About The Frozen Time.

Already With Thee! Tender Is The Night. . . But Here There Is No Light. . .