Fame, Power, And Gold, Are Loved For

One Nightingale In An Interfluous Wood Satiate The Hungry Dark With Melody.

I Have Drunken Deep Of Joy, And I Will Taste No Other Wine Tonight.

Are We Not Formed, As Notes Of Music Are, For One Another, Though Dissimilar?

Poets, Not Otherwise Than Philosophers, Painters, Sculptors, And Musicians, Are, In One Sense, The Creators, And, In Another, The Creations, Of Their Age.

Where Art Thou, Beloved To-morrow? When Young And Old, And Strong And Weak, Rich And Poor, Through Joy And Sorrow, Thy Sweet Smiles We Ever Seek,-- In Thy Place--ah! Well-a-day! We Find The Thing We Fled--to-day!