Man should be ever better than he seems. - Aubrey De Vere

Memory, in widow's weeds, with naked feet stands on a tombstone.

There is no remedy for time misspent;
No healing for the waste of idleness,
Whose very languor is a punishment
Heavier than active souls can feel or guess.

O Love-star of the unbeloved March, When cold and shrill,
Forth flows beneath a low, dim-lighted arch The wind that beats sharp crag and barren hill,
And keeps unfilmed the lately torpid rill!