Can Death Be Sleep, When

A Thing Of Beauty Is A Joy Forever.

The Silver, Snarling Trumpets 'gan To Chide.

Fast Fading Violets Cover'd Up In Leaves; And Mid-may's Eldest Child, The Coming Musk-rose, Full Of Dewy Wine, The Murmurous Haunt Of Flies On Summer Eves.

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

I Could Be Martyred For My Religion. Love Is My Religion And I Could Die For That. I Could Die For You.