One more unfortunate Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly, Young and so fair!

Misfortune is a fine opiate to personal terror.

For my part getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.

Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Unnatural and full of contradictions; Yet others of our most romantic schemes Are something more than fictions.

Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!