Death is Life's high meed.

I find that I can have no enjoyment in the world but the continual drinking of knowledge. I find there is no worthy pursuit but the idea of doing some good for the world.

And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.

The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.

We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.

You are always new to me.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.