My Days Are In The Yellow Leaf;

Thy Decay's Still Impregnate With Divinity.

No Words Suffice The Secret Soul To Show, For Truth Denies All Eloquence To Woe.

Admire, Exult, Despise, Laugh, Weep For Here There Is Such Matter For All Feelings: Man! Thou Pendulum Betwixt A Smile And Tear.

But Every Fool Describes, In These Bright Days, His Wondrous Journey To Some Foreign Court, And Spawns His Quarto, And Demands Your Praise,-- Death To His Publisher, To Him 'tis Sport.

A Thousand Years May Scare Form A State. An Hour May Lay It In Ruins.