In Idle Wishes, Fools Supinely Stay. Be

There Is No Mind So Weak And Powerless As Not To Have Its Inclinations, And None So Guarded As To Be Without Its Prepossessions.

A Club There Is Of Smokers--dare You Come To That Close, Clouded, Hot, Narcotic Room? When, Midnight Past, The Very Candles Seem Dying For Air, And Give A Ghastly Gleam; When Curling Fumes In Lazy Wreaths Arise, And Prosing Topers Rub Their Winking Eyes.

A Master Passion Is The Love Of News.

Anger Makes Us Strong, Blind And Impatient, And It Leads Us Wrong; The Strength Is Quickly Lost; We Feel The Error Long.

With Awe, Around These Silent Walks I Tread; These Are The Lasting Mansions Of The Dead.