The Truth never flaunted a sign.

We turn not older with years but newer every day.

Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.

Knew I how to pray, to intercede for your [broken] Foot were intuitive - but I am but a Pagan.

Pain - has an Element of Blank It cannot recollect When it begun - or if there were a time when it was not - It has no Future - but itself - Its Infinite contain Its Past - enlightened to perceive New Periods - of Pain.

The friend anguish reveals is the slowest forgot.

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege I think.