I Always Made An Awkward Bow.

What Shocks The Virtuous Philosopher, Delights The Chameleon Poet.

Dance And Provencal Song And Sunburnt Mirth! On For A Beaker Full Of The Warm South, Full Of The True, The Blushful Hippocrene! With Beaded Bubbles Winking At The Brim, And Purple-stained Mouth.

Pleasure Is Oft A Visitant; But Pain Clings Cruelly To Us.

Thou Wast Not Born For Death, Immortal Bird! No Hungry Generations Tread Thee Down; The Voice I Hear This Passing Night Was Heard In Ancient Days By Emperor And Clown.

She Hurried At His Words, Beset With Fears, For There Were Sleeping Dragons All Around.