Whatsoe'er thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought and softly bodied forth.

The power of Thought,--the magic of the Mind!

What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought.

I stood Among them, but not of them: in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts.

I thought it would appear / That there had been a lady in the case.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.