“Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;
For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.”

“Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.”

“I cannot hear thy voice with others' ears,
Who make of thy lost liberty a gain;
And in thy tale of blighted hopes and fears
Feel not that every note is born with pain.”

“Painting the sensual with thy hues divine,—
Thou turn'st away thy face, while scattering
Perchance upon his brow some fading flowers,
Of which he strives to twine a funeral crown,
Spending his life to weave a wreath of death!”

“Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.”

“… Night has chosen thee; thy death will be thy birth. Night calls to thee; harken to Her sweet voice. Your destiny awaits you at the House of Night.”

“He lives, he wakes — 'tis Death is dead, not he;
Mourn not for Adonais. — Thou young Dawn,
Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee
The spirit thou lamentest is not gone.”

“Turn thy thoughts now to the consideration of thy life, thy life as a child, as a youth, thy manhood, thy old age, for in these also every change was a death. Is this anything to fear?”

“Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end;
Shame serves thy life and doth thy death attend.”

“Death had to take him in his sleep, for if he was awake there'd have been a fight.”