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.

Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please, the more because they preach in vain

It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment - but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?

Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies for those who know thee not.

A thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest hearts.

And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music... Speak to me!

Oh, nature's noblest gift, my grey goose quill, Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from the parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men.