He who is only just is cruel; who Upon the earth would live were all judged justly?

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

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.

Oh, nature's noblest gift, my grey goose quill, Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from the parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men.

Sorrow preys upon Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it From its sad visions of the other world Than calling it at moments back to this. The busy have no time for tears.

As winds come whispering lightly from the West, Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene.