I Have Taken Pride In Others, Never

Wanting Is Not Enough, Long And You Attain It.

When The Poet Died His Cat Was Put To Death And Mummified.

And I Live On, But In Grief And Self-contempt, Left Here Without The Light I Loved So Much, In A Great Tempest And With Shrouds Unkempt.

Reality Is Always The Foe Of Famous Names.

Nothing Mortal Is Enduring, And There Is Nothing Sweet Which Does Not Presently End In Bitterness.