Like A Mermaid In Sea-weed, She Dreams

I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.

He Who Saddens At Thought Of Idleness Cannot Be Idle, / And He's Awake Who Thinks Himself Asleep.

I Do Think Better Of Womankind Than To Suppose They Care Whether Mister John Keats Five Feet High Likes Them Or Not.

I Had A Dove And The Sweet Dove Died; And I Have Thought It Died Of Grieving: O, What Could It Grieve For? Its Feet Were Tied, With A Silken Thread Of My Own Hands' Weaving.

Through The Dancing Poppies Stole A Breeze, Most Softly Lulling To My Soul.