O Love! they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.

The dream Dreamed by a happy man, when the dark East, Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn.

Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.

Twilight and evening bell, and after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell when I embark.

Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool.

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.

We cannot be kind to each other here for even an hour. We whisper, and hint, and chuckle and grin at our brother's shame; however you take it we men are a little breed.