Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.

I learned to love despair.

Of religion I know nothing -- at least, in its favor.

Yet I did love thee to the last, As ferverently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now.

One hates an author that's all author.

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

Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes: Pique her and soothe in turn-soon Passion crowns thy hopes.