The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o'er the land, Breaks there, and buries its tumultuous strength.

Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.

And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again.

For I say this is death and the sole death,- When a man's loss comes to him from his gain, Darkness from light, from knowledge ignorance, And lack of love from love made manifest.

Stand still, true poet that you are! I know you; let me try and draw you. Some night you'll fail us: when afar You rise, remember one man saw you, Knew you, and named a star!

A lion may die of an ass's kick.

In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe.