The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
Such hath it been--shall be--beneath the sun The many still must labour for the one.
I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands.
The image of Eternity--the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.