I Awoke One Day To Find Myself

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

Sleep Hath Its Own World, And The Wide Realm Of Wild Reality.

Yet Smelt Roast Meat, Beheld A Huge Fire Shine, And Cooks In Motion With Their Clean Arms Bared.

A Man Of Eighty Has Outlived Probably Three New Schools Of Painting, Two Of Architecture And Poetry And A Hundred In Dress.

Sorrow Preys Upon Its Solitude, And Nothing More Diverts It From Its Sad Visions Of The Other World Than Calling It At Moments Back To This. The Busy Have No Time For Tears.