The ring of a false coin is not more recognizable than that of a rhyme setting forth a false sorrow.

The ocean moans over dead men's bones.

The ring of a false coin is not more recognizable than that of a rhyme setting forth a false sorrow.

Turn on its noiseless hinges, delicate sleep!

Come watch with me the shaft of fire that glows in yonder West; the fair, frail palaces, The fading Alps and archipelagoes and great cloud continents of sunset-seas.

So I sit there kicked my heels, thinking about New Orleans, and watching a morbid blue-bottle fly attempt to commit suicide by butting his head against the windowpane.

October turned my maple's leaves to gold; The most are gone now; here and there one lingers: Soon these will slip from the twigs' weak hold, Like coins between a dying miser's fingers.