That Sweet Sleep Which Medicines All Pain.

Of Planets, Struggling Fierce Towards Heaven's Free Wilderness.

Away, Away, From Men And Towns, To The Wild Wood And The Downs, - To The Silent Wilderness, Where The Soul Need Not Repress Its Music.

Music, When Soft Voices Die, Vibrates In The Memory; Odours, When Sweet Violets Sicken, Live Within The Sense They Quicken. Rose Leaves, When The Rose Is Dead, Are Heap'd For The Belovèd's Bed; And So Thy Thoughts, When Thou Art Gone, Love Itself Shall Slumber On.

I Consider Poetry Very Subordinate To Moral And Political Science.

A Single Word Even May Be A Spark Of Inextinguishable Thought