By Headless Charles See Heartless Henry Lies.

There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods.

Poetry Should Only Occupy The Idle.

Brisk Confidence Still Best With Woman Copes: Pique Her And Soothe In Turn-soon Passion Crowns Thy Hopes.

My Beautiful, My Own My Only Venice-this Is Breath! Thy Breeze Thine Adrian Sea-breeze, How It Fans My Face! Thy Very Winds Feel Native To My Veins, And Cool Them Into Calmness!

Italia! O Italia! Thou Who Hast The Fatal Gift Of Beauty.