The Grandeur Of The Dooms We Have

I Shall Soon Be Laid In The Quiet Grave - Thank God For The Quiet Grave

There Is A Budding Morrow In Midnight.

Where The Nightingale Doth Sing Not A Senseless, Tranced Thing, But Divine Melodious Truth.

Call The World If You Please "the Vale Of Soul-making." Then You Will Find Out The Use Of The World.

To Hope "when By My Solitary Hearth I Sit, And Hateful Thoughts Enwrap My Soul In Gloom; When No Fair Dreams Before My 'mind's Eye' Flit, And The Bare Heath Of Life Presents No Bloom; Sweet Hope, Ethereal Balm Upon Me Shed, And Wave Thy Silver Pinions O'er My Head.