The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o'er the land, Breaks there, and buries its tumultuous strength.
Sappho survives, because we sing her songs; And Eschylus, because we read his plays!
Only I discern Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.
I do what many dream of, all their lives
Men are not angels, neither are they brutes.
Poetry, like love, is something we never truly say goodbye to.