We deny that poetry is fiction; its merit and its power lie alike in its truth: - Letitia Elizabeth Landon

[Alvine] Oh, that sweet ring of graceful figures ! one
Flings her white arms on high, and gaily strikes
Her golden cymbals — I can almost deem
I hear their beatings; one with glancing feet
Follows her music, while her crimson cheek
Is flushed with exercise, till the red grape
'Mid the dark tresses of a sister nymph
Is scarcely brighter ; there another stands,
A darker spirit yet, with joyous brow,
And holding a rich goblet ;

Her likeness ! why it is a vain endeavour
To image it. Painting or words may never
Say what she was ; yet dwell I on the task,
As if that Poesy had a right to ask
From Memory its treasure.

Death's a fearful thing when we must count its steps!