Honour Sits Smiling At The Sale Of

Love's Pestilence, And Her Slow Dogs Of War.

Oh, That The Wise From Their Bright Minds Would Kindle Such Lamps Within The Dome Of This Dim World That The Pale Name Of Priest Might Shrink And Dwindle Into The Hell From Which It First Was Furled.

There Is A Harmony In Autumn, And A Luster In Its Sky...

When A Man Marries, Dies, Or Turns Hindu, His Best Friends Hear No More Of Him.

The Breath Of Accusation Kills An Innocent Name, And Leaves For Lame Acquittal The Poor Life, Which Is A Mask Without It.