Often Have I Wondered With Much Curiosity

Books Have Led Some To Learning And Others To Madness.

Mere Elegance Of Language Can Produce At Best But An Empty Renown.

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

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.

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