For Through The South The

Pleasure's A Sin, And Sometimes Sin's A Pleasure.

Go Let Thy Less Than Woman's Hand Assume The Distaff Not The Brand.

'tis Solitude Should Teach Us How To Die; It Hath No Flatterers; Vanity Can Give, No Hollow Aid; Alone - Man With God Must Strive.

But 'why Then Publish?' There Are No Rewards Of Fame Or Profit When The World Grows Weary. I Ask In Turn Why Do You Play At Cards? Why Drink? Why Read? To Make Some Hour Less Dreary. It Occupies Me To Turn Back Regards On What I've Seen Or Pondered, Sad Or Cheery, And What I Write I Cast Upon The Stream To Swim Or Sink. I Have Had At Least My Dream.

Are Not The Mountains, Waves, And Skies As Much A Part Of Me, As I Of Them?