He makes a solitude, and calls it - peace!
Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss.
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.
A man must serve his time to every trade, Save censure-critics all are ready made. Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote With just enough learning to misquote.
He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.
Despair and Genius are too oft connected