Life In Itself Is Short Enough, But

Hope Is Incredible To The Slave Of Grief.

Where You Are Is Of No Moment, But Only What You Are Doing There. It Is Not The Place That Ennobles You, But You The Place, And This Only By Doing That Which Is Great And Noble.

What Name To Call Thee By, O Virgin Fair, I Know Not, For Thy Looks Are Not Of Earth And More Than Mortal Seems Thy Countenances

Mere Elegance Of Language Can Produce At Best But An Empty Renown.

And I Live On, But In Grief And Self-contempt, Left Here Without The Light I Loved So Much, In A Great Tempest And With Shrouds Unkempt.