Give Me Books, French Wine,

Joy, Whose Hand Is Ever At His Lips, Bidding Adieu

Where The Nightingale Doth Sing Not A Senseless, Tranced Thing, But Divine Melodious Truth.

A Thing Of Beauty Is A Joy Forever: Its Loveliness Increases; It Will Never Pass Into Nothingness.

I Will Imagine You Venus Tonight And Pray, Pray, Pray To Your Star Like A Heathen.

Who Would Wish To Be Among The Commonplace Crowd Of The Little Famous - Who Are Each Individually Lost In A Throng Made Up Of Themselves?