Over the brink of it Picture it--think of it, Dissolute man. Lave in it--drink of it Then, if you can.

Oh, God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!

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!

And soon Their hushing dances languished to a stand, Like midnight leaves when, as the Zephyrs swoon, All on their drooping stems they sink unfanned.