Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!
We are all selfish and I no more trust myself than others with a good motive.
Land of lost gods and godlike men.
Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.
What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?
Many are poets, but without the name;For what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill; and aimAt an external life beyond our fate,And be the new Prometheus of new men,Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain