The heart will break, but broken live on.
One hates an author that's all author.
Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
War, war is still the cry,-"war even to the knife!"
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.
Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep for here There is such matter for all feelings: Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.