When She Had Passed, It Seemed Like

Dead He Is Not, But Departed, For The Artist Never Dies.

It Has Done Me Good To Be Somewhat Parched By The Heat And Drenched By The Rain Of Life.

The Motives And Purposes Of Authors Are Not Always So Pure And High, As, In The Enthusiasm Of Youth, We Sometimes Imagine. To Many The Trumpet Of Fame Is Nothing But A Tin Horn To Call Them Home, Like Laborers From, The Field, At Dinner-time, And They Think Themselves Lucky To Get The Dinner.

Southward With Fleet Of Ice Sailed The Corsair Death; Wild And Fast Blew The Blast, And The East-wind Was His Breath.

Through Woods And Mountain Passes The Winds, Like Anthems, Roll.