One May Smile, And Smile,

The Urging Of That Word, Judgment, Hath Bred A Kind Of Remorse In Me.

The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention Like Deep Harmony.

But As The Unthought-on Accident Is Guilty To What We Wildly Do, So We Profess Ourselves To Be The Slaves Of Chance, And Flies Of Every Wind That Blows.

Tears Water Our Growth.

You See Me Here, You Gods, A Poor Old Man, As Full Of Grief As Age; Wretched In Both.