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She press’d his hand in slumber; so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore.

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Hands Herself Himself Kiss

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Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul.
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Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, tranced thing, But divine melodious truth.
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Many have original minds who do not think it – they are led away by custom!
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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Death is Life’s high meed.
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I want a brighter word than bright.
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