If The Egotist Is Weak, His Egotism

We Bury Love; Forgetfulness Grows Over It Like Grass: That Is A Thing To Weep For, Not The Dead.

Stirling, Like A Huge Brooch, Clasps Highlands And Lowlands Together.

I Go Into My Library, And All History Unrolls Before Me. I Breathe The Morning Air Of The World While The Scent Of Eden's Roses Yet Lingered In It, While It Vibrated Only To The World's First Brood Of Nightingales, And To The Laugh Of Eve. I See The Pyramids Building; I Hear The Shoutings Of The Armies Of Alexander.

Fame Is But An Inscription On A Grave, And Glory The Melancholy Blazon On A Coffin Lid.

My Garden, With Its Silence And Pulses Of Fragrance That Come And Go On The Airy Undulations, Affects Me Like Sweet Music. Care Stops At The Gates, And Gazes At Me Wistfully Through The Bars.