Death is the tyrant of the imagination.

Sing! Who sings To her who weareth a hundred rings? Ah, who is this lady fine? The Vine, boys, the Vine! The mother of the mighty Wine, A roamer is she O'er wall and tree And sometimes very good company.

Gamaun is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a noble breed, Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, But blown abroad by the pride within His mane is like a river flowing, And his eyes like embers glowing In the darkness of the night, And his pace as swift as light.

Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently,-as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream!

The sweetest noise on earth, a woman's tongue A string which hath no discord.

I said that I loved the wise proverb, Brief, simple and deep For it I'd exchange the great poem That sends us to sleep.

The sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round It plays with the clouds it mocks the skies Or like a cradled creature lies.

Enter upon thy paths, O year! Thy paths, which all who breathe must tread, Which lead the Living to the Dead, I enter for it is my doom To tread thy labyrinthine gloom To note who round me watch and wait To love a few perhaps to hate And do all duties of my fate.

Love can take what shape he pleases and when once begun his fiery inroad in the soul, how vain the after knowledge which his presence gives! We weep or rave but still he lives, and lives master and lord, amidst pride and tears and pain.

O human beauty, what a dream art thou, that we should cast our life and hopes away on thee!

Shadows fall on even the brightest hours.

A single star is rising in the east, and from afar sheds a most tremulous lustre silent Night doth wear it like a jewel on her brow.

I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more.