To Possess Is Past The

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

Morning Without You Is A Dwindled Dawn.

Truth - Is As Old As God-.

Mirth Is The Mail Of Anguish --

Two Seasons, It Is Said, Exist- The Summer Of The Just, And This Of Ours, Diversified With Prospect, And With Frost- May Not Our Second With Its First So Infinite Compare That We But Recollect The One The Other To Prefer?