Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are <i>least</i> alone. - Lord Byron

In solitude, where we are least alone.

Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured urns,
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen’d scroll, no praise-encumber’d stone;
My epitaph shall be my name alone:

Man. I tell thee, man! I have lived many years,
Many long years, but they are nothing now
To those which I must number: ages — ages — Space and eternity — and consciousness,
With the fierce thirst of death — and still unslaked! C. Hun. Why on thy brow the seal of middle age
Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far. 50 Man. Think’st thou existence doth depend on time?
It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine
Have made my days and nights imperishable,
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore,
Innumerable atoms; and one desert,
Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break,
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks,
Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness.

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer
For other's weal avail'd on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.