Solitude Is Sometimes Best Society.

And That Must End Us, That Must Be Our Cure: To Be No More. Sad Cure! For Who Would Lose, Though Full Of Pain, This Intellectual Being, Those Thoughts That Wander Through Eternity, To Perish, Rather, Swallowed Up And Lost In The Wide Womb Of Uncreated Night Devoid Of Sense And Motion?

Ask For This Great Deliverer Now, And Find Him Eyeless In Gaza At The Mill With Slaves.

Ere The Blabbing Eastern Scout, The Nice Morn, On Th' Indian Steep From Her Cabin'd Loop-hole Peep.

Now I See Peace To Corrupt No Less Than War To Waste.

Ease Would Recant Vows Made In Pain, As Violent And Void.