When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd / And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night, / I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
I see behind each mask that wonder a kindred soul.
I will not descend among professors and capitalists.
Logic and sermons never convince, The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.
Something there is more immortal even than the stars.
O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?