Convinced Myself, I Seek Not To Convince.

To Elevate The Soul, Poetry Is Necessary.

In Our Endeavors To Recall To Memory Something Long Forgotten, We Often Find Ourselves Upon The Very Verge Of Remembrance, Without Being Able, In The End, To Remember.

Me Volví Loco, Con Largos Intervalos De Horrible Cordura.

Men Have Called Me Mad; But The Question Is Not Yet Settled, Whether Madness Is Or Is Not The Loftiest Intelligence– Whether Much That Is Glorious– Whether All That Is Profound– Does Not Spring From Disease Of Thought– From Moods Of Mind Exalted At The Expense Of The General Intellect.

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