Talent May Be In Time Forgiven, But

Heaven Gives Its Favourites-early Death.

The Great Art Of Life Is Sensation, To Feel That We Exist, Even In Pain.

And Mocha's Berry, From Arabia Pure, In Small Fine China Cups, Came In At Last. Gold Cups Of Filigree, Made To Secure The Hand From Burning, Underneath Them Place. Cloves, Cinnamon And Saffron, Too, Were Boiled Up With The Coffee, Which, I Think, They Spoiled.

Earth! Render Back From Out Thy Breast A Remnant Of Our Spartan Dead! Of The Three Hundred Grant But Three, To Make A New Thermopylæ!

Roll On, Deep And Dark Blue Ocean, Roll. Ten Thousand Fleets Sweep Over Thee In Vain. Man Marks The Earth With Ruin, But His Control Stops With The Shore.