When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, he sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life’s page, and be alone on earth, as I am now.
What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, there is a rapture on the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more.
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt in solitude, where we are least alone.
The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree I planted, – they have torn me, – and I bleed: I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
The heart will break, yet brokenly live on.
Smiles form the channel of a future tear.
He who surpasses or subdues mankind, must look down on the hate of those below.
For pleasures past I do not grieve, nor perils gathering near; my greatest grief is that I leave no thing that claims a tear.
Who loves, raves.
