A Mystery, And A Dream, Should My

By The Grey Woods, By The Swamp, Where The Toad And Newt Encamp, By The Dismal Tarns And Pools, Where Dwell The Gouls. By Each Spot The Most Unholy, By Each Nook Most Melancholy, There The Traveller Meets, Aghast, Sheeted Memories Of The Past. Shrouded Forms That Start And Sigh, As They Pass The Wanderer By. White-robed Forms Of Friends Long Given; In Agony, To The Earth - And Heaven.

Quaff, Oh Quaff This Kind Nepenthe, And Forget This Lost Lenore!

I Was Never Really Insane Except Upon Occasions When My Heart Was Touched.

Experience Has Shown, And A True Philosophy Will Always Show, That A Vast, Perhaps The Larger Portion Of The Truth Arises From The Seemingly Irrelevant.

The Eye, Like A Shattered Mirror, Multiplies The Images Of Sorrow