Death: The Grand Perhaps.

I, Painting From Myself And To Myself, Know What I Do, Am Unmoved By Men's Blame Or Their Praise Either.

I Do What Many Dream Of, All Their Lives

From The Sprinkled Isles, Lily On Lily, That O'erlace The Sea.

When The Liquor's Out, Why Clink The Cannikin?

Genius Has Somewhat Of The Infantine; But Of The Childish Not A Touch Or Taint.