Old Man! 'tis Not Difficult To Die.

Fill High The Cup With Samian Wine!

Know Ye Not Who Would Be Free Themselves Must Strike The Blow? By Their Right Arms The Conquest Must Be Wrought?

Many Are Poets, But Without The Name;for What Is Poesy But To Createfrom Overfeeling Good Or Ill; And Aimat An External Life Beyond Our Fate,and Be The New Prometheus Of New Men,bestowing Fire From Heaven, And Then, Too Late,finding The Pleasure Given Repaid With Pain

Whatsoever Thy Birth, Thou Wert A Beautiful Thought, And Softly Bodied Forth.

This Quiet Sail Is As A Noiseless Wing To Waft Me From Distraction.