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I have made my bed In charnels and on coffins, where black death Keeps record of the trophies won
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The good want power, but to weep barren tears. The powerful goodness want: worse need for them....
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Rough wind, that moanest loudGrief too sad for songWild wind, when sullen cloudKnells all the night longSad storm, whose tears are vain,Bare woods, whose branches strain,Deep caves and dreary main, - Wail, for the world's wrong
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If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
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Reviewers, with some rare exceptions, are a most stupid and malignant race. As a bankrupt thief turns thief-taker in despair, so an unsuccessful author turns critic.
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