My candle burns at both ends

After the feet of beauty fly my own.

I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll.

I do not think there is a woman in whom the roots of passion shoot deeper than in me.

There is no God. But it does not matter. Man is enough.

I have loved badly, loved the great Too soon, withdrawn my words too late; And eaten in an echoing hall Alone and from a chipped plate The words that I withdrew too late.

Under my head till morning; but the rain, Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh, Upon the glass and listen for reply.