The heart will break, but broken live on.
As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands.
There is no instinct like that of the heart.
Lord of himself; that heritage of woe!
When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, To sever for years.
This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.