Champagne With Its Foaming Whirls/as White As

Muse Of The Many Twinkling Feet, Whose Charms Are Now Extending Up From Legs To Arms.

Sleep Hath Its Own World, And The Wide Realm Of Wild Reality.

I Have A Great Mind To Believe In Christianity For The Mere Pleasure Of Fancying I May Be Damned.

For Truth Is Always Strange; Stranger Than Fiction.

The Cold, The Changed, Perchance The Dead, Anew, The Mourn'd, The Loved, The Lost,-too Many, Yet How Few!