Her court was pure, her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed.

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world.

A louse in the locks of literature.

Man is man, and master of his fate.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depths of some devine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.

The folly of all follies is to be love sick for a shadow.

Forgive! How many will say, forgive, and find a sort of absolution in the sound to hate a little longer!