I Resolved That, Like The Sun, As

Lives Of Great Men Oft Remind Us As We O'er Their Pages Turn, That We Too May Leave Behind Us - Letters That We Ought To Burn.

How Bravely Autumn Paints Upon The Sky The Gorgeous Fame Of Summer Which Is Fled!

No Sun, No Moon, No Morn, No Noon, No Dawn, No Dusk, No Proper Time Of Day, . . . . . . No Road, No Street, No T' Other Side The Way, . . . . . . No Shade, No Shine, No Butterflies, No Bees, No Fruits, No Flowers, No Leaves, No Buds.

To Attempt To Advise Conceited People Is Like Whistling Against The Wind.

What Is A Modern Poet's Fate? / To Write His Thoughts Upon A Slate; / The Critic Spits On What Is Done, / Gives It A Wipe - And All Is Gone.