All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.
The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.
We are all a part of every person we have ever met.
The folly of all follies is to be love sick for a shadow.
My life has crept so long on a broken wing Through cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing.
Sweet were the days when I was all unknown, But when my name was lifted up, the storm Brake on the mountain and I cared not for it. Right well know I that fame is half disfame.