The love where Death has set his seal, Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, Nor falsehood disavow. - Lord Byron

But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

Some have accused me of a strange design
Against the creed and morals of this land,
And trace it in this poem every line:
I don't pretend that I quite understand
My meaning when I would be very fine;
But the fact is that I have nothing planned...

Tis to create, and in creating live
A being more intense, that we endow
With form our fancy, gaining as we give
The life we image, even as I do now.
What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou,
Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth,
Invisible but gazing, as I glow
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth,
And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings' dearth.