That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech.

And those who saw, it did surprise, Such drops could fall from human eyes.

So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like scorpion girt by fire; So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death.

Eat, drink and love...the rest is not worth a nickel

I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!