Endow The Living - With The Tears

The Soul Selects Her Own Society.

A Precious, Mouldering Pleasure 't Is, To Meet An Antique Book, In Just The Dress His Century Wore; A Privilege I Think.

Drunkards Of Summer Are Quite As Frequent As Drunkards Of Wine.

We Both Believe, And Disbelieve A Hundred Times An Hour, Which Keeps Believing Nimble.

I Cling To Nowhere Until I Fall - The Crash Of Nothing.