There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.
A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.
The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.
The chamber where the good man meets his fate Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.
Revere thyself, and yet thyself despise
Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes; They love a train, they tread each other's heel.