Bards Of Passion And Of Mirth, Ye

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

I Almost Wish We Were Butterflies And Liv'd But Three Summer Days - Three Such Days With You I Could Fill With More Delight Than Fifty Common Years Could Ever Contain.

Through The Dancing Poppies Stole A Breeze, Most Softly Lulling To My Soul.

Every Fresh Experience Points Out Some Form Of Error Which We Shall Afterwards Carefully Avoid.

Was It A Vision Or A Waking Dream? Fled Is That Music--do I Wake Or Sleep?