The Poet in his ArtMust intimate the whole, and say the smallest part.

Oh! faint delicious spring-time violet, Thine odor like a key, Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to let A thought of sorrow free.

Of every noble work the silent part is best; of all expression, that which cannot be expressed.

But the gray and the cold are haunted by a beauty akin to pain, by a sense of a something wanted that never will come again.

The shadows of twilight grow,And the tiger’s ancient fiercenessIn my veins begins to flow.