Low On His Funeral Couch

Beyond The Limits Of A Vulgar Fate, Beneath The Good How Far,-but Far Above The Great.

I Shall Be But A Shrimp Of An Author.

Rich With The Spoils Of Time.

The Insect-youth Are On The Wing, Eager To Taste The Honied Spring, And Float Amid The Liquid Noon!

To Brisk Notes In Cadence Beating, Glance Their Many-twinkling Feet.