I Do What Many Dream Of, All

There's A New Tribunal Now Higher Than God's -the Educated Man's!

Kiss Me As If You Made Believe You Were Not Sure This Eve, How My Face, Your Flower, Had Pursed It's Petals Up.

I Want To Know A Butcher Paints, A Baker Rhymes For His Pursuit, Candlestick-maker Much Acquaints His Soul With Song, Or, Haply Mute, Blows Out His Brains Upon The Flute.

How Sad And Bad And Mad It Was - But Then, How It Was Sweet

No Work Begun Shall Ever Pause For Death.