... Virtue Owns A More Eternal Foe

O World! O Life! O Time! On Whose Last Steps I Climb

I Have Drunken Deep Of Joy, And I Will Taste No Other Wine Tonight.

I Fall Upon The Thorns Of Life.

Music, When Soft Voices Die, Vibrates In The Memory; Odours, When Sweet Violets Sicken, Live Within The Sense They Quicken. Rose Leaves, When The Rose Is Dead, Are Heap'd For The Belovèd's Bed; And So Thy Thoughts, When Thou Art Gone, Love Itself Shall Slumber On.

The Pleasure That Is In Sorrow Is Sweeter Than The Pleasure Of Pleasure Itself.