Some books are to tasted; others to be swallowed; and some few to be chewed and digested. - Bacon
Of my mad years the vanished mirth and laughter
Affect me like a fume-filled morning-after.
Not so past pain - like wine is it to me
That as the years go by gains potency.
Sad is the path before me: toil and sorrow
Lie on the restless seaways of the morrow.
And yet from thought of death, my friends, I shrink;
I want to live - to suffer and to think,
And amid care and grief and tribulation,
Taste of sweet rapture and exhilaration;
Be drunk with harmony; touch fancy's strings
And freely weep o'er its imaginings...
And love's last flash, its smile of farewell tender
My sad decline may yet less mournful render.