And All I Loved, I Loved Alone.

You Call It Hope-that Fire Of Fire! It Is But Agony Of Desire.

And So, Being Young And Dipt In Folly, I Fell In Love With Melancholy.

I Am Actuated By An Ambition Which I Believe To Be An Honourable One — The Ambition Of Serving The Great Cause Of Truth, While Endeavouring To Forward The Literature Of The Country.

There Are Some Secrets Which Do Not Permit Themselves To Be Told. Men Die Nightly In Their Beds, Wringing The Hands Of Ghostly Confessors, And Looking Them Piteously In The Eyes - Die With Despair Of Heart And Convulsion Of Throat, On Account Of The Hideousness Of Mysteries Which Will Not Suffer Themselves To Be Revealed. Now And Then, Alas, The Conscience Of Man Takes Up A Burden So Heavy In Horror That It Can Be Thrown Down Only Into The Grave. And Thus The Essence Of All Crime Is Undivulged.

Man's Real Life Is Happy, Chiefly Because He Is Ever Expecting That It Soon Will Be So.