Open Afresh Your Rounds Of Starry Folds,

Where Are The Songs Of Spring? Aye, Where Are They? Think Not Of Them; Thou Has Thy Music Too.

Thou Art A Dreaming Thing, A Fever Of Thyself.

--then On The Shore Of The Wide World I Stand Alone, And Think Till Love And Fame To Nothingness Do Sink.

His Religion At Best Is An Anxious Wish,-like That Of Rabelais, A Great Perhaps.

The Opinion I Have Of The Generality Of Women--who Appear To Me As Children To Whom I Would Rather Give A Sugar Plum Than My Time, Forms A Barrier Against Matrimony Which I Rejoice In.