For A Man To Become A Poet

A Timid Mind Is Apt To Mistake Every Scratch For A Mortal Wound.

What Deep Wounds Ever Closed Without A Scar?

The Music, And The Banquet, And The Wine-- The Garlands, The Rose Odors, And The Flowers, The Sparkling Eyes, And Flashing Ornaments-- The White Arms And The Raven Hair--the Braids, And Bracelets; Swan-like Bosoms, And The Necklace, An India In Itself, Yet Dazzling Not.

As Falls The Dew On Quenchless Sands, Blood Only Serves To Wash Ambition's Hands.

In England The Only Homage Which They Pay To Virtue - Is Hypocrisy.