Next To Dressing For A

It Is Singular How Soon We Lose The Impression Of What Ceases To Be Constantly Before Us. A Year Impairs, A Luster Obliterates. There Is Little Distinct Left Without An Effort Of Memory, Then Indeed The Lights Are Rekindled For A Moment - But Who Can Be Sure That The Imagination Is Not The Torch-bearer?

Man Is In Part Divine, A Troubled Stream From A Pure Source.

And Hold Up To The Sun My Little Taper.

On The Ear Drops The Light Drip Of The Suspended Oar.

Then Farewell, Horace; Whom I Hated So, Not For Thy Faults, But Mine.