A poet is a nightingale, who sits in the darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.

I never was attached to that great sect, Whose doctrine is that each one should select Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend, And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend, To cold oblivion.

Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

That sweet sleep which medicines all pain.

For there are ... sufferings which have no tongues.

They there may dig each other's graves, And call the sad work glory.