A Hair Divides What Is False And

Wake! For The Sun, Who Scatter'd Into Flight The Stars Before Him From The Field Of Night, Drives Night Along With Them From Heav'n, And Strikes The Sultan's Turret With A Shaft Of Light

Dead Yesterdays And Unborn Tomorrows, Why Fret About It, If Today Be Sweet.

Ah Love! Could You And I With Him Conspire To Grasp This Sorry Scheme Of Things Entire Would We Not Shatter It To Bits-and Then Re-mould It Nearer To The Heart's Desire?

To Be Free Of Belief And Unbelief Is My Religion.

Alas, That Spring Should Vanish With The Rose! That Youths Sweet-scented Manuscript Should Close!