The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow.

Whatever may be his true and final destination, there is a spirit within him at enmity with nothingness and dissolution. This is the character of all life and being.

Near that a dusty paint-box, some odd hooks, A half-burnt match, an ivory block, three books, Where conic sections, spherics, logarithms, To great Laplace, from Saunderson and Sims, Lie heaped in their harmonious disarray Of figures,-disentangle them who may.

It is found easier, by the short-sighted victims of disease, to palliate their torments by medicine, than to prevent them by regimen

My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Kings are like stars,-they rise and set, they have The worship of the world, but no repose.

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon.