Ever let the Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home. - John Keats

His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,
Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed;

I wish you could infuse a little confidence of human nature into my heart. I cannot muster any — the world is too brutal for me — I am glad there is such a thing as the grave — I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art — Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.