He that wrongs a friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar ever condemned.

Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death.

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.

The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs the deep.

Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.

I can't sleep without knowing there's hope. Half the night I waste in sighs. In a wakeful doze I sorrow. For the hands, for the lips... the eyes. For the meeting of tomorrow.

Gone - flitted away, Taken the stars from the night and the sun From the day! Gone, and a cloud in my heart.