It Is A Flaw In Happiness To

We Have Woven A Web, You And I, Attached To This World But A Separate World Of Our Own Invention.

Young Playmates Of The Rose And Daffodil, Be Careful Ere Ye Enter In, To Fill Your Baskets High With Fennel Green, And Balm, And Golden Pines Savory Latter-mint, And Columbines.

I Stood Tip-toe Upon A Little Hill, The Air Was Cooling, And So Very Still, That The Sweet Buds Which With A Modest Pride Pull Droopingly, In Slanting Curve Aside, Their Scantly Leaved, And Finely Tapering Stems, Had Not Yet Lost Those Starry Diadems Caught From The Early Sobbing Of The Morn.

O Latest Born And Loveliest Vision Far Of All Olympus' Faded Hierarchy.

Pensive They Sit, And Roll Their Languid Eyes.