And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.

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

Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.

I have not loved the World, nor the World me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coined my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud In worship of an echo.

I see before me the gladiator lie.

I am ashes where once I was fire.

I am as comfortless as a pilgrim with peas in his shoes - and as cold as Charity, Chastity or any other Virtue.