how sad and bad and mad it was - but then, how it was sweet - Robert Browning

Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!
Not for such hopes and fears
Annulling youth's brief years,
Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark!
Rather I prize the doubt
Low kinds exist without,
Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.
Poor vaunt of life indeed,
Were man but formed to feed
On joy, to solely seek and find and feast;
Such feasting ended, then
As sure an end to men.

Autumn wins you best by this its mute </br>Appeal to sympathy for its decay.

A man in armor is his armor's slave.