Happiness Was Born A Twin.

Sleep Hath Its Own World, And The Wide Realm Of Wild Reality.

A Thirst For Gold, The Beggar's Vice, Which Can But Overwhelm The Meanest Hearts.

'tis Solitude Should Teach Us How To Die; It Hath No Flatterers; Vanity Can Give, No Hollow Aid; Alone - Man With God Must Strive.

And If I Laugh At Any Mortal Thing, 'tis That I May Not Weep.

I Stood In Venice, On The Bridge Of Sighs; A Palace And A Prison On Each Hand; I Saw From Out The Wave Of Her Structure's Rise As From The Stroke Of The Enchanter's Wand: A Thousand Years Their Cloudy Wings Expand Around Me, And A Dying Glory Smiles O'er The Far Times, When Many A Subject Land Look'd To The Winged Lion's Marble Pines, Where Venice Sate In State, Throned On Her Hundred Isles.