Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.

A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.

Much have I traveled in the realms of gold, and many goodly states and kingdoms seen.

The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbed sense to steel it.

This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold And in the icy silence of the tomb, So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood, So in my veins red life might stream again, And thou be conscience-calm'd. See, here it is-- I hold it towards you.

Alas! when passion is both meek and wild!

You are always new, the last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.