The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.

Our blossoms of passion, gay and luxuriant flowers, are bright and full of fragrance, but they beguile us and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.

Nothing that is can pause or stay.

So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest.

Every great poem is in itself limited by necessity, but in its suggestions unlimited and infinite.

To be left alone, and face to face with my own crime, had been just retribution.

What seems to us but dim funeral tapers may be heaven's distant lamps.