A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.

Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a muse' d rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!

My chest of books divide amongst my friends.

The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children.

To stay youthful, stay useful.