O For A Life Of Sensations Rather

I Have Two Luxuries To Brood Over In My Walks, Your Loveliness And The Hour Of My Death. O That I Could Have Possession Of Them Both In The Same Minute.

Real Are The Dreams Of Gods, And Smoothly Pass Their Pleasures In A Long Immortal Dream.

You Cannot Conceive How I Ache To Be With You: How I Would Die For One Hour.

My Friends Should Drink A Dozen Of Claret On My Tomb.

The Poppies Hung Dew-dabbled On Their Stalks.