Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge How little we know that which we are! How less we may be! - Lord Byron

If I had never lived, that which I love had still been living; had I never loved, that which I love would still be beautiful — happy and giving happiness. What is she? What is she now? — a sufferer for my sins — a thing I dare not think upon — or nothing.

Nothing so difficult as a beginning
In poesy, unless perhaps the end;
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning
The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend,
Like Lucifer when hurled from Heaven for sinning;
Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend,
Being Pride, which leads the mind to soar too far,
Till our own weakness shows us what we are.

But Time, which brings all beings to their level,
And sharp Adversity, will teach at last
Man, — and, as we would hope, — perhaps the Devil,
That neither of their intellects are vast:
While Youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel,
We know not this — the blood flows on too fast;
But as the torrent widens towards the Ocean,
We ponder deeply on each past emotion.

Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb; and life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.