Life Has No Friend.

When We Are Old And These Rejoicing Veins Are Frosty Channels To A Muted Stream, And Out Of All Our Burning There Remains No Feeblest Spark To Fire Us, Even In Dream, This Be Our Solace: That It Was Not Said When We Were Young And Warm And In Our Prime, Upon Our Couch We Lay As Lie The Dead, Sleeping Away The Unreturning Time.

Music My Rampart, And My Only One.

Blessed Be Death, That Cuts In Marble What Would Have Sunk To Dust!

O Troubled Forms, O Early Love Unfortunate And Hard, Time Has Estranged You Into A Jewel Cold And Pure

Longing Alone Is Singer To The Lute.