I Loved My Country, And I Hated

But At Sixteen The Conscience Rarely Gnaws So Much, As When We Call Our Old Debts In At Sixty Years, And Draw The Accounts Of Evil, And Find A Deuced Balance With The Devil.

We Are All The Fools Of Time And Terror: Days Steal On Us And Steal From Us; Yet We Live, Loathing Our Life, And Dreading Still To Die.

We Are All Selfish And I No More Trust Myself Than Others With A Good Motive.

The Great Art Of Life Is Sensation, To Feel That We Exist, Even In Pain.

And Life 's Enchanted Cup But Sparkles Near The Brim.