There Is An Old Saying "well Begun

Or Thou Might'st Better Listen To The Wind, Whose Language Is To Thee A Barren Noise, Though It Blows Legend-laden Through The Trees.

Pensive They Sit, And Roll Their Languid Eyes.

My Friends Should Drink A Dozen Of Claret On My Tomb.

The Air Is All Softness.

Through The Dancing Poppies Stole A Breeze, Most Softly Lulling To My Soul.