Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen.
For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.
Grief should be the instructor of the wise; Sorrow is Knowledge.
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.
I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee