On A Lone Winter Evening, When The

I See A Lily On Thy Brow, With Anguish Moist And Fever Dew; And On Thy Cheek A Fading Rose Fast Withereth Too.

I Have Met With Women Whom I Really Think Would Like To Be Married To A Poem And To Be Given Away By A Novel.

Sudden A Thought Came Like A Full-blown Rose, Flushing His Brow.

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.

The Only Means Of Strengthening One's Intellect Is To Make Up One's Mind About Nothing, To Let The Mind Be A Thoroughfare For All Thoughts.