For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.

Name and fame! to fly sublime Through the courts, the camps, the schools Is to be the ball of Time, Bandied in the hands of fools.

The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath fouled me.

Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?

A louse in the locks of literature.

Shall love be blamed for want of faith?

Woman is the lesser man.