The Grandeur Of The Dooms We Have

Wine Is Only Sweet To Happy Men.

She Press'd His Hand In Slumber; So Once More He Could Not Help But Kiss Her And Adore.

The Silver, Snarling Trumpets 'gan To Chide.

If I Should Die, I Have Left No Immortal Work Behind Me — Nothing To Make My Friends Proud Of My Memory — But I Have Loved The Principle Of Beauty In All Things, And If I Had Had Time I Would Have Made Myself Remembered.

To Feel Forever Its Soft Fall And Swell, Awake For Ever In A Sweet Unrest, Still, Still To Hear Her Tender-taken Breath, And So Live Ever-or Else Swoon In Death.