...yes, In Spite Of All, Some Shape

No Sooner Had I Stepp'd Into These Pleasures Than I Began To Think Of Rhymes And Measures: The Air That Floated By Me Seem'd To Say 'write! Thou Wilt Never Have A Better Day.

There Is A Budding Morrow In Midnight.

My Chest Of Books Divide Amongst My Friends.

I Think I Shall Be Among The English Poets After My Death.

It Is A Flaw In Happiness To See Beyond Our Bourn, - It Forces Us In Summer Skies To Mourn, It Spoils The Singing Of The Nightingale.