They Swayed About Upon A Rocking Horse,

Through The Dancing Poppies Stole A Breeze, Most Softly Lulling To My Soul.

Death Is Life's High Meed.

I Came To Feel How Far Above All Fancy, Pride, And Fickle Maidenhood, All Earthly Pleasure, All Imagined Good, Was The Warm Tremble Of A Devout Kiss.

Who Would Wish To Be Among The Commonplace Crowd Of The Little Famous - Who Are Each Individually Lost In A Throng Made Up Of Themselves?

Joy, Whose Hand Is Ever At His Lips, Bidding Adieu