Thoughts are tyrants that return again and again to torment us.

The clock strikes off the hollow half-hours of all the life that is left to you, one by one.

The old church tower and garden wall Are black with autumn rain And dreary winds foreboding call The darkness down again

Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves. But if you be afraid of your touchiness, you must ask pardon, mind, when she comes in.

May you not rest, as long as I am living. You said I killed you - haunt me, then.

And from the midst of cheerless gloom I passed to bright unclouded day.

She burned too bright for this world.