Yet I did love thee to the last, As ferverently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now. - Lord Byron

There 's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.

But I being fond of true philosophy,
Say very often to myself, 'Alas!
All things that have been born were born to die,
And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass;
You've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly,
And if you had it o'er again — 't would pass — So thank your stars that matters are no worse,
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.

That which would not yield, nor could forget,
Which, when it least appear'd to melt,
Intensely thought, intensely felt:
The deepest ice which ever froze
Can only o'er the surface close;
The living stream lies quick below,
And flows — and cannot cease to flow.