On A Lone Winter Evening, When The

Real Are The Dreams Of Gods, And Smoothly Pass Their Pleasures In A Long Immortal Dream.

Though The Most Beautiful Creature Were Waiting For Me At The End Of A Journey Or A Walk; Though The Carpet Were Of Silk, The Curtains Of The Morning Clouds; The Chairs And Sofa Stuffed With Cygnet's Down; The Food Manna, The Wine Beyond Claret, The Window Opening On Winander Mere, I Should Not Feel -or Rather My Happiness Would Not Be So Fine, As My Solitude Is Sublime.

Sweet Are The Pleasures That To Verse Belong, And Doubly Sweet A Brotherhood In Song.

Through Buried Paths, Where Sleepy Twilight Dreams The Summer Time Away.

Where Soil Is, Men Grow, Whether To Weeds Or Flowers.