The Mortal Sickness Of A Mind Too

Could Man Be Drunk For Ever With Liquor, Love, Or Fights, Lief Should I Rouse At Morning And Lief Lie Down Of Nights. But Men At Whiles Are Sober And Think By Fits And Starts, And If They Think, They Fasten Their Hands Upon Their Hearts.

A Moment's Thought Would Have Shown Him. But A Moment Is A Long Time, And Thought Is A Painful Process.

There, Like The Wind Through Woods In Riot, Through Him The Gale Of Life Blew High; The Tree Of Man Was Never Quiet: Then 'twas The Roman, Now 'tis I.

Luck's A Chance, But Trouble's Sure.

When The Journey's Over/there'll Be Time Enough To Sleep.