Like burnt-out torches by a sick man's bed

Drip-hiss-drip- hist fall the raindrops/ on the oaken log which burns, and steams, and smokes the ceiling beams. Drip- hiss- the rain never stops

When the stars threw down their spears, / And water'd heaven with their tears

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor.

I do not care to talk to you although/ Your speech evokes a thousand sympathies

The sun was shining on the sea/ Shining with all of its might:

The leaves are little yellow fish / swimming in the river

The old clock down in the parlor/ Like a sleepless mourner grieves,

By lakes that thus outspread/ Their sad waters, sad and chilly

Fame is a bee/ It has a song--/It has a sting