A Young Man Married Is

Love's Stories Written In Love's Richest Books. To Fan The Moonbeams From His Sleeping Eyes.

When I Was At Home I Was In A Better Place

Then Must You Speak Of One That Loved Not Wisely But Too Well, Of One Not Easily Jealous But, Being Wrought, Perplexed In The Extreme; Of One Whose Hand, Like The Base Indian, Threw A Pearl Away Richer Than All His Tribe; Of One Whose Subdued Eyes, Albeit Unused To The Melting Mood, Drop Tears As Fast As The Arabian Trees Their Medicinable Gum. Set You Down This, And Say Besides That In Aleppo Once, Where A Malignant And A Turbaned Turk Beat A Venetian And Traduced The State, I Took By Th' Throat The Circumcised Dog And Smote Him Thus.

Care Is No Cure, But Rather Corrosive, For Things That Are Not To Be Remedied.

My Way Of Life Is Fall'n Into The Sear And Yellow Leaf.