I Am About To Be Married, And

We Are All The Fools Of Time And Terror: Days Steal On Us And Steal From Us; Yet We Live, Loathing Our Life, And Dreading Still To Die.

My Beautiful, My Own My Only Venice-this Is Breath! Thy Breeze Thine Adrian Sea-breeze, How It Fans My Face! Thy Very Winds Feel Native To My Veins, And Cool Them Into Calmness!

Then Farewell, Horace; Whom I Hated So, Not For Thy Faults, But Mine.

Love Will Find A Way Through Paths Where Wolves Fear To Prey.

So Bright The Tear In Beauty's Eye, Love Half Regrets To Kiss It Dry.