A Mother's breast: Safe refuge from her childish fears, From childish troubles, childish tears, Mists that enshroud her dawning years! see how in sleep she seems to sing A voiceless psalm, an offering...
"Oh, when I was a little Ghost, A merry time had we! Each seated on his favourite post, We chumped and chawed the buttered toast They gave us for our tea."
"How shall I be a poet? How shall I write in rhyme? You told me once 'the very wish Partook of the sublime.' The tell me how! Don't put me off With your 'another time'!" ...