Fiction is but moulding together the materials collected by every day, in real as well as imagined life ; the highest order of excellence carries the… - Letitia Elizabeth Landon

... Oh! burning are the drops
That wounded love will shed—like to the dew
Falling from off the poison tree, the blight
Still following the touch ;—ah ! other tears
Soften and bless—but these destroy the heart.

the hollow voice
Of that old crone, the only living sound;
Her face, on which mortality has writ
Its closing, with the wan and bony hand,
Raised like a spectre's—and yourself the while,
Cold from the midnight chill, and white with fear,
Your large blue eyes darker and larger grown
With terror's chain'd attention, and your breath
Suppress'd for very earnestness.

Farewell, and when to-morrow
Seems little, like to-day,
And we find life's deepest sorrow
Melts gradual away ;
Yet do not quite forget me.