O Bed! O Bed! Delicious

What Is A Modern Poet's Fate? / To Write His Thoughts Upon A Slate; / The Critic Spits On What Is Done, / Gives It A Wipe - And All Is Gone.

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright And Yellow, Hard And Cold!

Bells Are Musics Laughter.

To Attempt To Advise Conceited People Is Like Whistling Against The Wind.

Lives Of Great Men Oft Remind Us As We O'er Their Pages Turn, That We Too May Leave Behind Us - Letters That We Ought To Burn.