Joy, Whose Hand Is Ever At His

And When Thou Art Weary I'll Find Thee A Bed, Of Mosses And Flowers To Pillow Thy Head.

My Friends Should Drink A Dozen Of Claret On My Tomb.

I Came To Feel How Far Above All Fancy, Pride, And Fickle Maidenhood, All Earthly Pleasure, All Imagined Good, Was The Warm Tremble Of A Devout Kiss.

What Is More Gentle Than A Wind Is Summer?

He Ne'er Is Crowned With Immortality Who Fears To Follow Where Airy Voices Lead.