I Am More Afraid Of Deserving Criticism

Nothing That Is Can Pause Or Stay; / The Moon Will Wax, The Moon Will Wane, / The Mist And Cloud Will Turn To Rain, / The Rain To Mist And Cloud Again, / Tomorrow Be Today.

Whatever Poet, Orator, Or Sage May Say Of It, Old Age Is Still Old Age.

As Great Pythagoras Of Yore, Standing Beside The Blacksmith's Door, And Hearing The Hammers, As They Smote The Anvils With A Different Note, Stole From The Varying Tones, That Hung Vibrant On Every Iron Tongue, The Secret Of The Sounding Wire. And Formed The Seven-chorded Lyre.

Safe From Temptation, Safe From Sin's Pollution, She Lives Whom We Call Dead.

Sit In Reverie And Watch The Changing Color Of The Waves That Break Upon The Idle Seashore Of The Mind.