All that's bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest.

Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me; In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.

Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish; Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.

All that's bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest.

This wretched brain gave way, and I became a wreck at random driven, without one glimpse of reason or heaven.

Romantic love is an illusion. Most of us discover this truth at the end of a love affair or else when the sweet emotions of love lead us into marriage and then turn down their flames.

Soul is to be found in the vicinity of taboo.