Count on, rest not, for hope is dead. - William Morris

I have never been in any rich man's house which would not have looked the better for having a bonfire made outside of it of nine-tenths of all that it held.

Whiles in the early Winter eve
We pass amid the gathering night
Some homestead that we had to leave
Years past; and see its candles bright
Shine in the room beside the door
Where we were merry years agone
But now must never enter more,
As still the dark road drives us on.
E'en so the world of men may turn
At even of some hurried day
And see the ancient glimmer burn
Across the waste that hath no way;
Then with that faint light in its eyes
A while I bid it linger near
And nurse in wavering memories
The bitter-sweet of days that were.

Pray but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips, Think but one thought of me up in the stars.