To The Very Last, He [napoleon] Had

Talking Of Pleasure, This Moment I Was Writing With One Hand, And With The Other Holding To My Mouth A Nectarine - How Good How Fine. It Went Down All Pulpy, Slushy, Oozy, All Its Delicious Embonpoint Melted Down My Throat Like A Large, Beatified Strawberry.

His Old Right Hand Lay Nerveless, Listless, Dead, Unsceptred; And His Realmless Eyes Were Closed.

The Day Is Gone, And All Its Sweets Are Gone!

One Of The Most Mysterious Of Semi-speculations Is, One Would Suppose, That Of One Mind's Imagining Into Another

All My Clear-eyed Fish, Golden, Or Rainbow-sided, Or Purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, Or Finn'd With Silvery Gauze... My Charming Rod, My Potent River Spells.