Boughs Are Daily Rifled By

There's A Double Beauty Whenever A Swan Swims On A Lake With Her Double Thereon.

O Men With Sisters Dear, O Men With Mothers And Wives, It Is Not Linen You 're Wearing Out, But Human Creatures' Lives!

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright And Yellow, Hard And Cold!

What Joy Have I In June's Return? My Feet Are Parched-my Eyeballs Burn, I Scent No Flowery Gust; But Faint The Flagging Zephyr Springs, With Dry Macadam On Its Wings, And Turns Me 'dust To Dust.'

For Man May Pious Texts Repeat, And Yet Religion Have No Inward Seat