There Is A Budding Morrow In Midnight.

The Roaring Of The Wind Is My Wife And The Stars Through The Window Pane Are My Children.

I Have Nothing To Speak Of But My Self-and What Can I Say But What I Feel.

One Of The Most Mysterious Of Semi-speculations Is, One Would Suppose, That Of One Mind's Imagining Into Another

I Must Choose Between Despair And Energy──i Choose The Latter.

I Stood Tip-toe Upon A Little Hill, The Air Was Cooling, And So Very Still, That The Sweet Buds Which With A Modest Pride Pull Droopingly, In Slanting Curve Aside, Their Scantly Leaved, And Finely Tapering Stems, Had Not Yet Lost Those Starry Diadems Caught From The Early Sobbing Of The Morn.