This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.
Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please, the more because they preach in vain
Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.
Come what may, I have been blest.
None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.
My slumbers--if I slumber--are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not: in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within; and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men.