How Does The Poet Speak

Dance And Provencal Song And Sunburnt Mirth! On For A Beaker Full Of The Warm South, Full Of The True, The Blushful Hippocrene! With Beaded Bubbles Winking At The Brim, And Purple-stained Mouth.

I Am In That Temper That If I Were Under Water I Would Scarcely Kick To Come To The Top.

You Are Always New, The Last Of Your Kisses Was Ever The Sweetest.

The Silver, Snarling Trumpets 'gan To Chide.

--then On The Shore Of The Wide World I Stand Alone, And Think Till Love And Fame To Nothingness Do Sink.