So Mayst Thou Live, Dear! Many Years,

Bells Are Musics Laughter.

O Bed! O Bed! Delicious Bed! That Heaven Upon Earth To The Weary Head.

Well, Something Must Be Done For May, The Time Is Drawing Nigh-- To Figure In The Catalogue, And Woo The Public Eye. Something I Must Invent And Paint; But Oh My Wit Is Not Like One Of Those Kind Substantives That Answer Who And What?

We Watch'd Her Breathing Through The Night, Her Breathing Soft And Low, As In Her Breast The Wave Of Life Kept Heaving To And Fro.

My Brain Is Dull, My Sight Is Foul, I Cannot Write A Verse, Or Read-- Then, Pallas, Take Away Thine Owl, And Let Us Have A Lark Instead.