Speed The Soft Intercourse From Soul To

Fly, Dotard, Fly! With Thy Wise Dreams And Fables Of The Sky.

Coffee Which Makes The Politician Wise, And See Through All Things With His Half-shut Eyes.

Nor In The Critic Let The Man Be Lost.

Leave Not A Foot Of Verse, A Foot Of Stone, A Page, A Grave, That They Can Call Their Own; But Spread, My Sons, Your Glory Thin Or Thick, On Passive Paper, Or On Solid Brick.

Lend, Lend Your Wings! I Mount! I Fly! O Grave! Where Is Thy Victory? O Death! Where Is Thy Sting?