Had Sigh'd To Many, Though He Loved

Gone, Glimmering Through The Dream Of Things That Were.

The Stars Are Forth, The Moon Above The Tops Of The Snow-shining Mountains--beautiful! I Linger Yet With Nature, For The Night Hath Been To Me A More Familiar Face Than That Of Man, And In Her Starry Shade Of Dim And Solitary Loveliness I Learned The Language Of Another World.

Shakespeare's Name, You May Depend On It, Stands Absurdly Too High And Will Go Down.

Man, Being Reasonable, Must Get Drunk; The Best Of Life Is But Intoxication.

Critics Are Already Made.