Memory, Bosom-spring Of Joy.

And All Who Heard Should See Them There, And All Should Cry, Beware! Beware! His Flashing Eyes, His Floating Hair! Weave A Circle Round Him Thrice, And Close Your Eyes With Holy Dread, For He On Honey-dew Hath Fed, And Drunk The Milk Of Paradise.

'tis A Month Before The Month Of May, And The Spring Comes Slowly Up This Way.

I Shall Attack Chemistry, Like A Shark.

Greatness And Goodness Are Not Means, But Ends! Hath He Not Always Treasures, Always Friends, The Good Great Man? Three Treasures, Love And Light, And Calm Thoughts, Regular As Infants' Breath; And Three Firm Friends, More Sure Than Day And Night, Himself, His Maker, And The Angel Death.

An Undevout Poet Is An Impossibility.