In solitude, when we are least alone.
There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.
The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August
This is to be along; this, this is solitude!
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.
Why I came here, I know not; where I shall go it is useless to inquire - in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?