The Sea Hath No King But God

So Spring Comes Merry Towards Me Here, But Earns No Answering Smile From Me, Whose Life Is Twin'd With The Dead Boughs That Winter Still Must Bind, And Whom Today The Spring No More Concerns. Behold, This Crocus Is A Withering Flame; This Snowdrop, Snow; This Apple-blossom's Part To Breed The Fruit That Breeds The Serpent's Art. Nay, For These Spring-flowers, Turn Thy Face From Them, Nor Stay Till On The Year's Last Lily-stem The White Cup Shrivels Round The Golden Heart.

Tis Visible Silence, Still As The Hour-glass.

The Wombat Is A Joy, A Triumph, A Delight, A Madness!

Still We Say As We Go,-"strange To Think By The Waywhatever There Is To Know,that Shall We Know One Day.

Places That Are Empty Of You Are Empty Of Life.