It is not in the storm or in the strife We feel benumbed and wish to be nor more, But in the after-silence on the shore When all is lost except a lit… - Lord Byron

Friendship is love without wings.

Too high for common selfishness, he could
At times resign his own for others’ good,
But not in pity, not because he ought,
But in some strange perversity of thought,
That swayed him onward with a secret pride
To do what few or none would do beside;
And this same impulse would, in tempting time,
Mislead his spirit equally in crime;
So much he soared beyond, or sunk beneath,
The men with whom he felt condemned to breathe,
And longed by good or ill to separate
Himself from all who shared his mortal state.

'Tis pleasure, sure, to see one's name in print;
A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.