Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.

Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.

I know that two and two make four - and should be glad to prove it too if I could - though I must say if by any sort of process I could convert 2 and 2 into five it would give me much greater pleasure.

Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.

I have a passion for the name of "Mary," For once it was a magic sound to me, And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, Where I beheld what never was to be.