Each in its solitude apart. Hate wars
Against himself, and feeds upon his chain,
Whose iron penetrates the soul it scars,
A dreadful solitude each mind insane,
Each its own place, its prison all alone,
And finds no sympathy to soften pain.
J. A. Heraud.
I’ll tell thee what is hell—thy memory
Still mountained up with records of the past,
Heap over heap, all accents and all forms,