Crowded places, I shunned them as noises too rude / And flew to the silence of sweet solitude.
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air; Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.
Ah, words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away.
I was Byron and Shakespeare formerly.
If life had a second edition, how I would correct the proofs.
I am: yet what I am none cares or knows, My friends forsake me like a memory lost; I am the self-consumer of my woes, They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost; And yet I am, and live with shadows tost.