No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to woe.
This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.
This is to be along; this, this is solitude!
And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music... Speak to me!
Her great merit is finding out mine; there is nothing so amiable as discernment.
One hates an author that's all author.