Upon the gallows hung a wretch,
Too sullied for the hell
To which the law entitled him.
As nature's curtain fell
The one who bore him tottered in,
For this was woman's son.
" 'T was all I had," she stricken gasped;
Oh, what a livid boon!

So art thou broken in upon me, Apollo,
Through a splendor of purple garments —
Held by the yellow-haired Clymene
To clothe the white of thy shoulders —
Bare from the day's leaping of horses.
This is strange to me, here in the modern twilight.

Few get enough, — enough is one;
To that ethereal throng
Have not each one of us the right
To stealthily belong?

Look back on time with kindly eyes,
He doubtless did his best;
How softly sinks his trembling sun
In human nature's west!

Are friends delight or pain?
Could bounty but remain
Riches were good.

But if they only stay
Bolder to fly away,
Riches are sad.

To make routine a stimulus
Remember it can cease.
Capacity to terminate
Is a specific grace.

There is another Loneliness
That many die without —
Not want of friend occasions it
Or circumstance of Lot
But nature, sometimes, sometimes thought
And whoso it befall
Is richer than could be revealed
By mortal numeral —

Suddenly discovering in the eyes of the very beautiful
Normande cocotte
The eyes of the very learned British Museum assistant.

The stimulus, beyond the grave
His countenance to see,
Supports me like imperial drams
Afforded royally.

They have a little Odor — that to me
Is metre — nay — 'tis melody —
And spiciest at fading — indicate —
A Habit — of a Laureate —