Death Is Life's High Meed.

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

Pensive They Sit, And Roll Their Languid Eyes.

I Shall Soon Be Laid In The Quiet Grave--thank God For The Quiet Grave--o! I Can Feel The Cold Earth Upon Me--the Daisies Growing Over Me--o For This Quiet--it Will Be My First.

What Is There In Thee, Moon! That Thou Should'st Move My Heart So Potently?

Neither Poetry, Nor Ambition, Nor Love Have Any Alertness Of Countenance As They Pass By Me.