He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.

Critics are already made.

The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.

This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.

I love not man the less, but Nature more.

Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were.

Let joy be unconfined.