You are always new. The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest. - John Keats

I have a habitual feeling of my real life having past, and that I am now leading a posthumous existence.

Let me write not for fame and laurel, but from the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful even if my night's labors be burnt each morning and no eye ever shine upon them.

But strength alone though of the Muses born
Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn,
Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres
Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs,
And thorns of life; forgetting the great end
Of poesy, that it should be a friend
To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.