The Prize Of All Too Precious You.

Write Till Your Ink Be Dry, And With Your Tears Moist It Again, And Frame Some Feeling Line That May Discover Such Integrity.

Ring The Alarum-bell! Blow, Wind! Come, Wrack! At Least We'll Die With Harness On Our Back.

A Turn Or Two I'll Walk To Still My Beating Mind.

Men Are April When They Woo, December When They Wed.

Life... Is A Paradise To What We Know Of Death.