There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste.
Man's conscience is the oracle of God.
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
Just as old age is creeping on space, And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company--the gout or stone.
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes.