All Writing Is A Form

The Silver, Snarling Trumpets 'gan To Chide.

Even Bees, The Little Almsmen Of Spring Bowers, Know There Is Richest Juice In Poison-flowers.

'tis The Witching Hour Of Night, Orbed Is The Moon And Bright. And The Stars They Glisten, Glisten, Seeming With Bright Eyes To Listen- For What Listen They?

Through Buried Paths, Where Sleepy Twilight Dreams The Summer Time Away.

And There Shall Be For Thee All Soft Delight That Shadowy Thought Can Win, A Bright Torch, And A Casement Ope At Night, To Let The Warm Love In!