Land of lost gods and godlike men.

We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.

What is fame? The advantage of being known by people of whom you yourself know nothing, and for whom you care as little.

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.

There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave.

I stood among them, but not of them: in a shroud of thoughts which were not their thoughts.

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast; Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so.