As Winds Come Whispering Lightly

We Of The Craft Are All Crazy.

My Beautiful, My Own My Only Venice-this Is Breath! Thy Breeze Thine Adrian Sea-breeze, How It Fans My Face! Thy Very Winds Feel Native To My Veins, And Cool Them Into Calmness!

May Moorland Weavers Boast Pindaric Skill, And Tailors' Lays Be Longer Than Their Bill! While Punctual Beaux Reward The Grateful Notes, And Pay For Poems--when They Pay For Coats.

For Through The South The Custom Still Commands The Gentleman To Kiss The Lady's Hands.

Grief Is Fantastical, And Loves The Dead, And The Apparel Of The Grave.