And hold up to the sun my little taper.

We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.

Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!

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.

It is useless to tell one not to reason but to believe; you might as well tell a man not to wake but sleep.

I see before me the gladiator lie.

Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were.