When I have fears that I may cease to be before my pen has gleaned my
teeming brain, before high-piled books, in charactery, hold like rich
garners the full ripened grain; when I behold, upon the night’s
scarred face, huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, and think that I
may never live to trace their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
and when I feel, fair creature of an hour, that I shall never look
upon thee more, never have relish in the faery power of unreflecting
love; - then on the shore of the wide world I stand alone, and think
till love and fame to nothingness do sink. –John Keats
