You Should Have A Softer Pillow Than

Lord Of Himself; That Heritage Of Woe!

I Stood In Venice, On The Bridge Of Sighs; A Palace And A Prison On Each Hand; I Saw From Out The Wave Of Her Structure's Rise As From The Stroke Of The Enchanter's Wand: A Thousand Years Their Cloudy Wings Expand Around Me, And A Dying Glory Smiles O'er The Far Times, When Many A Subject Land Look'd To The Winged Lion's Marble Pines, Where Venice Sate In State, Throned On Her Hundred Isles.

A Thirst For Gold, The Beggar's Vice, Which Can But Overwhelm The Meanest Hearts.

Cervantes Smiled Spain's Chivalry Away.

I Slept And Dreamt That Life Was Beauty; I Woke And Found That Life Was Duty.