Sing, Riding 's A Joy! For Me

A Face To Lose Youth For, To Occupy Age With The Dream Of, Meet Death With.

Life Is An Empty Dream.

For Thence A Paradox Which Comforts While It Mocks, - Shall Life Succeed In That It Seems To Fail: What I Aspired To Be, And Was Not, Comforts Me: A Brute I Might Have Been, But Would Not Sink I' The Scale.

All Poetry Is Putting The Infinite Within The Finite.

A Minute's Success Pays The Failure Of Years.