Oh, God! it is a fearful thing To see the human soul take wing In any shape, in any mood. - Lord Byron

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,
Sadder than owl- songs or the midnight blast,
Is that portentous phrase, “I told you so,”
Utter’d by friends, those prophets of the past,
Who, ’stead of saying what you now should do,
Own they foresaw that you would fall at last,
And solace your slight lapse ’gainst “bonos mores,”
With a long memorandum of old stories.

Whate'er
I may have been, or am, doth rest between
Heaven and myself; I shall not choose a mortal
To be my mediator.

When all of genius which can perish dies.