But Still My Fancy Wanders Free Through

Clouds On Clouds, In Volumes Driven, Curtain Round The Vault Of Heaven.

Time Is Lord Of Thee: Thy Wealth, Thy Glory, And Thy Name Are His.

Seamen Three! What Men Be Ye? Gotham's Three Wise Men We Be. Whither In Your Bowl So Free? To Rake The Moon From Out The Sea. The Bowl Goes Trim. The Moon Doth Shine, And Our Ballast Is Old Wine.

How Troublesome Is Day! It Calls Us From Our Sleep Away; It Bids Us From Our Pleasant Dreams Awake, And Sends Us Forth To Keep Or Break Our Promises To Pay. How Troublesome Is Day!

My Quarrel With Him Is, That His Works Contain Nothing Worth Quoting; And A Book That Furnishes No Quotations, Is Me Judice, No Book,—it Is A Plaything.