The Silver, Snarling Trumpets 'gan To Chide.

I Will Imagine You Venus Tonight And Pray, Pray, Pray To Your Star Like A Heathen.

O For Ten Years, That I May Overwhelm / Myself In Poesy; So I May Do The Deed / That My Own Soul Has To Itself Decreed.

The Public - A Thing I Cannot Help Looking Upon As An Enemy, And Which I Cannot Address Without Feelings Of Hostility.

To Silence Gossip, Don't Repeat It.

Through The Dancing Poppies Stole A Breeze, Most Softly Lulling To My Soul.