These Two Imparadised In One Another's Arms,

On A Sudden Open Fly With Impetuous Recoil And Jarring Sound Th' Infernal Doors, And On Their Hinges Grate Harsh Thunder.

What Need A Man Forestall His Date Of Grief, And Run To Meet What He Would Most Avoid?.

I Was All Ear, And Took In Strains That Might Create A Soul Under The Ribs Of Death.

So Sinks The Day-star In The Ocean Bed, And Yet Anon Repairs His Drooping Head, And Tricks His Beams, And With New-spangled Ore Flames In The Forehead Of The Morning Sky.

The Olive Grove Of Academe, Plato's Retirement, Where The Attic Bird Trills Her Thick-warbled Notes The Summer Long.