This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.

And the small ripple spilt upon the beach Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagne, When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, That spring-dew of the spirit! the heart's rain! Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please,—the more because they preach in vain,— Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda-water the day after.

No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to woe.

The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.

My altars are the mountains and the ocean.

No more we meet in yonder bowers Absence has made me prone to roving; But older, firmer hearts than ours, Have found monotony in loving.

Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people.