Not all the pride of beauty; Those eyes, that tell us what the sun is made of; Those lips, whose touch is to be bought with life; Those hills of driven snow, which seen are felt: All these possessed are nought, but as they are The proof, the substance of an inward passion, And the rich plunder of a taken heart.

Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?

Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.

Ah! what is human life? How, like the dial's tardy-moving shade, Day after day slides from us unperceiv'd! The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth; Too subtle is the movement to be seen; Yet soon the hour is up--and we are gone.

Man wants but little, nor that little long; How soon must he resign his very dust, Which frugal nature lent him for an hour!

Day buries day; month, month; and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.

There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.