What Is Mind? No Matter. What Is

How Bravely Autumn Paints Upon The Sky The Gorgeous Fame Of Summer Which Is Fled!

What Is A Modern Poet's Fate? / To Write His Thoughts Upon A Slate; / The Critic Spits On What Is Done, / Gives It A Wipe - And All Is Gone.

When Eve Upon The First Of Men The Apple Press'd With Specious Cant, Oh! What A Thousand Pities Then That Adam Was Not Adamant!

And There Is Even A Happiness That Makes The Heart Afraid.

No Blessed Leisure For Love Or Hope, But Only Time For Grief.