A Little Noiseless Noise Among

Here Lies One Whose Name Was Writ In Water.

Souls Of Poets Dead And Gone, What Elysium Have Ye Known, Happy Field Or Mossy Cavern, Choicer Than The Mermaid Tavern? Have Ye Tippled Drink More Fine Than Mine Host's Canary Wine?

Fanatics Have Their Dreams, Wherewith They Weave A Paradise For A Sect.

Poetry Should Surprise By A Fine Excess And Not By Singularity, It Should Strike The Reader As A Wording Of His Own Highest Thoughts, And Appear Almost A Remembrance.

What Shocks The Virtuous Philosopher, Delights The Chameleon Poet.