I Cannot Live With You,

How Softly Summer Shuts, Without The Creaking Of A Door.

Anger As Soon As Fed Is Dead- 'tis Starving Makes It Fat.

He Fumbles At Your Spirit As Players At The Keys Before They Drop Full Music On; He Stuns You By Degrees. Prepares Your Brittle Substance For The Ethereal Blow By Fainter Hammers, Further Heard, Then Nearer, Then So Slow Your Breath Has Time To Straighten Your Brain To Bubble Cool,- Deals One Imperial Thunderbolt That Scalps Your Naked Soul.

The Spider As An Artist Has Never Been Employed- Though His Surpassing Merit Is Freely Certified.

My Only Sketch, Profile, Of Heaven Is A Large Blue Sky, And Larger Than The Biggest I Have Seen In June - And In It Are My Friends - Every One Of Them.