The Day Is Gone, And All Its

In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy Tree, Thy Branches Ne'er Remember Their Green Felicity.

Here Lies One Whose Name Was Writ In Water.

A Thing Of Beauty Is A Joy Forever.

When The Melancholy Fit Shall Fall Sudden From Heaven Like A Weeping Cloud, That Fosters The Droop-headed Flowers All, And Hides The Green Hill In An April Shroud; Then Glut Thy Sorrow On A Morning Rose.

What Is More Gentle Than A Wind Is Summer?