There Is A Tear For All Who

Who Falls From All He Knows Of Bliss, Cares Little Into What Abyss.

Be Warm, Be Pure, Be Amorous, But Be Chaste.

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

In Solitude, When We Are Least Alone.

Friendship May, And Often Does, Grow Into Love, But Love Never Subsides Into Friendship.