Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
The light that never was, on sea or land; The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.