He Is Dead Already Who Doth Not

The Bright Incarnate Spirit Of The Morn.

Life Seems Like A Haunted Wood, Where We Tremble And Crouch And Cry.

In My Song You Catch At Times Note Sweeter Far Than Mine, And In The Tangle Of My Rhymes Can Scent The Eglantine.

Public Opinion Is No More Than This: What People Think That Other People Think.

Through The Dripping Weeks That Follow One Another Slow, And Soak Summer's Extinguished Fire And Autumn's Drifting Smoke.