Fade Far Away, Dissolve, And

The Poppies Hung Dew-dabbled On Their Stalks.

His Religion At Best Is An Anxious Wish,-like That Of Rabelais, A Great Perhaps.

Dry Your Eyes O Dry Your Eyes, For I Was Taught In Paradise To Ease My Breast Of Melodies.

You Might Curb Your Magnanimity, And Be More Of An Artist, And Load Every Rift Of Your Subject With Ore.

There Is Not A Fiercer Hell Than The Failure In A Great Object.