I Saw Pale Kings And Princes Too,

Thou Art A Dreaming Thing, A Fever Of Thyself.

Soft Closer Of Our Eyes! Low Murmur Of Tender Lullabies!

Who Would Wish To Be Among The Commonplace Crowd Of The Little Famous - Who Are Each Individually Lost In A Throng Made Up Of Themselves?

I Have Two Luxuries To Brood Over In My Walks, Your Loveliness And The Hour Of My Death. O That I Could Have Possession Of Them Both In The Same Minute.

And When Thou Art Weary I'll Find Thee A Bed, Of Mosses And Flowers To Pillow Thy Head.