It Is The Lava Of The Imagination

And Wrinkles, The Damned Democrats, Won't Flatter.

She Walks In Beauty, Like The Night Of Cloudless Climes And Starry Skies; And All That's Best Of Dark And Bright Meet In Her Aspect And Her Eyes.

I Really Cannot Know Whether I Am Or Am Not The Genius You Are Pleased To Call Me, But I Am Very Willing To Put Up With The Mistake, If It Be One. It Is A Title Dearly Enough Bought By Most Men, To Render It Endurable, Even When Not Quite Clearly Made Out, Which It Never Can Be Till The Posterity, Whose Decisions Are Merely Dreams To Ourselves, Has Sanctioned Or Denied It, While It Can Touch Us No Further.

But 'why Then Publish?' There Are No Rewards Of Fame Or Profit When The World Grows Weary. I Ask In Turn Why Do You Play At Cards? Why Drink? Why Read? To Make Some Hour Less Dreary. It Occupies Me To Turn Back Regards On What I've Seen Or Pondered, Sad Or Cheery, And What I Write I Cast Upon The Stream To Swim Or Sink. I Have Had At Least My Dream.

As Winds Come Whispering Lightly From The West, Kissing, Not Ruffling, The Blue Deep's Serene.