What A Strange Thing Is

When Age Chills The Blood, When Our Pleasures Are Past - For Years Fleet Away With The Wings Of The Dove - The Dearest Remembrance Will Still Be The Last, Our Sweetest Memorial The First Kiss Of Love.

So Do The Dark In Soul Expire, Or Live Like Scorpion Girt By Fire; So Writhes The Mind Remorse Hath Riven, Unfit For Earth, Undoom'd For Heaven, Darkness Above, Despair Beneath, Around It Flame, Within It Death.

To Be Perfectly Original One Should Think Much And Read Little, And This Is Impossible, For One Must Have Read Before One Has Learnt To Think.

This Man Is Freed From Servile Bands, Of Hope To Rise, Or Fear To Fall; Lord Of Himself, Though Not Of Lands, And Leaving Nothing, Yet Hath All.

Why I Came Here, I Know Not; Where I Shall Go It Is Useless To Inquire - In The Midst Of Myriads Of The Living And The Dead Worlds, Stars, Systems, Infinity, Why Should I Be Anxious About An Atom?