A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. - Percy Bysshe Shelley

Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know
That things depart which never may return:
Childhood and youth, friendship and love's first glow,
Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn.
These common woes I feel. One loss is mine
Which thou too feel'st, yet I alone deplore.
Thou wert as a lone star, whose light did shine
On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar:
Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood
Above the blind and battling multitude:
In honored poverty thy voice did weave
Songs consecrate to truth and liberty, — Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve,
Thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to be

I love tranquil solitude, And such society As is quiet, wise, and good; Between thee and me What difference? but thou dost possess The things I seek, not love them less.

Once, early in the morning, Beelzebub arose, With care his sweet person adorning, He put on his Sunday clothes.