There is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object.
O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.
A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
Already with thee! tender is the night. . . But here there is no light. . .
Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.