Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.

I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?

For pleasures past I do not grieve, nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave nothing that claims a tear.

Eternity forbids thee to forget.

In solitude, when we are least alone.

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave, Then some leap'd overboard with fearful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave.

I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse -- borne away with every breath!