The more congenial page of some tenth-rate poeticule worn out with failure after failure and now squat in his hole like the tailless fox, he is curled up to snarl and whimper beneath the inaccessible vine of song.

Forget that I remember And dream that I forget.

Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live; And to give thanks is good, and to forgive.

There lived a singer in France of old By the tideless dolorous midland sea. In a land of sand and rain and gold There shone one woman, and none but she.

Love, till dawn sunder night from day with fire Dividing my delight and my desire.

Time turns the old days to derision, Our loves into corpses or wives.

While three men hold together, the kingdoms are less by three.