I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.

The devil was the first democrat

But 'why then publish?' There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. I ask in turn why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read? To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I've seen or pondered, sad or cheery, And what I write I cast upon the stream To swim or sink. I have had at least my dream.

For a man to become a poet (witness Petrarch and Dante), he must be in love, or miserable.

Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.

What a strange thing is man! And what a stranger is woman.

Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!