Not poppy, nor mandrake, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep, Which thou owest yesterday.
Here's a song was never sung: Growing old is dying young.
pity me that the heart is slow to learn what the swift mind beholds at every turn.
I hate people but I love gatherings.
But she was not made for any man, and she will never be all mine.
Under my head till morning; but the rain, Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh, Upon the glass and listen for reply.