Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.
Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister
I see before me the gladiator lie.
Yet I did love thee to the last, As ferverently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now.
I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South
It is useless to tell one not to reason but to believe; you might as well tell a man not to wake but sleep.