So sad, so fresh the days that are no more.

Shall the hag Evil die with the child of Good, Or propagate again her loathèd kind, Thronging the cells of the diseased mind, Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood, Though hourly pastured on the salient blood?

I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair.

Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.

Guard your roving thoughts with a jealous care, for speech is but the dialer of thoughts, and every fool can plainly read in your words what is the hour of your thoughts.