The Silver, Snarling Trumpets 'gan To Chide.

In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy Tree, Thy Branches Ne'er Remember Their Green Felicity.

O Solitude! If I Must With Thee Dwell, Let It Not Be Among The Jumbled Heap Of Murky Buildings

I Would Sooner Fail Than Not Be Among The Greatest.

The Feel Of Not To Feel It, When There Is None To Heal It Nor Numbed Sense To Steel It.

Poetry Should Be Great And Unobtrusive, A Thing Which Enters Into One's Soul, And Does Not Startle It Or Amaze It With Itself, But With Its Subject.