Sins, as the seas, about me surged—
Thought of the printer’s ready pen
To-morrow drowning me again;—
A million things without a name—
I thought of everything but—Fame....
“A memory yet is in my mind,
So keenly clear and sharp-defined,
I picture every phase and line
Of life and death, and neither mine,—
While some fair seraph, golden-haired,