When He Is Forsaken, Withered And Shaken,

Some Sigh For This And That; My Wishes Don't Go Far; The World May Wag At Will, So I Have My Cigar.

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.

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.

There's A Double Beauty Whenever A Swan Swims On A Lake With Her Double Thereon.

No Shade, No Shine, No Butterflies, No Bees, No Fruits, No Flowers, No Leaves, No Birds - November!