Poetry Should Only Occupy The

Our Life Is Two Fold Sleep Hath Its Own World, A Boundary Between The Things Misnamed Death And Existence Sleep Hath Its Own World, And A Wide Realm Of Wild Reality.

Oh Who Can Tell, Save He Whose Heart Hath Tried.

My Native Land, Good Night!

She Walks In Beauty, Like The Night Of Cloudless Climes And Starry Skies; And All That's Best Of Dark And Bright Meet In Her Aspect And Her Eyes.

When People Say, "i've Told You Fifty Times," They Mean To Scold, And Very Often Do; When Poets Say, "i've Written Fifty Rhymes," They Make You Dread That They'll Recite Them Too; In Gangs Of Fifty, Thieves Commit Their Crimes; At Fifty Love For Love Is Rare, 't Is True, But Then, No Doubt, It Equally As True Is, A Good Deal May Be Bought For Fifty Louis.