And thus we all are nighingThe truth we fear to know:Death will end our cryingFor friends that come and go.

Where the Light falls, death falls;And in the darkness comes the Light.

Poet and kings are but the clerks of Time.

Still through the dusk of dead, blank-legended,And unremunerative years we searchTo get where life begins, and still we groanBecause we do not find the living sparkWhere no spark ever was; and thus we die,Still searching, like poor old astronomersWho totter off to bed and go to sleep,To dream of untriangulated stars.

We cannot crown ourselves with everything Nor can we coax the Fates for us to quarrel:No matter what we are, or what we sing,Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel.

Yes, there is yet one way to where she is, / Bitter, but one that faith may never miss. / Out of the grave I come to tell you this— / To tell you this.

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, /Went home and put a bullet through his head.