I Love The Language, It Sounds As

He Had Kept The Whiteness Of His Soul, And Thus Men O'er Him Wept.

For A Man To Become A Poet (witness Petrarch And Dante), He Must Be In Love, Or Miserable.

The Poor Dog, In Life The Firmest Friend, The First To Welcome, Foremost To Defend, Whose Honest Heart Is Still The Master's Own, Who Labours, Fights, Lives, Breathes For Him Alone, Unhonour'd Falls, Unnoticed All His Worth, Denied In Heaven The Soul He Held On Earth, While Man, Vain Insect Hopes To Be Forgiven, And Claims Himself A Sole Exclusive Heaven.

Why I Came Here, I Know Not; Where I Shall Go It Is Useless To Inquire - In The Midst Of Myriads Of The Living And The Dead Worlds, Stars, Systems, Infinity, Why Should I Be Anxious About An Atom?

To Chase The Glowing Hours With Flying Feet.