Every Man Has His Secret Sorrows.

Every Human Heart Is Human.

O Little Souls! As Pure As White And Crystalline As Rays Of Light Direct From Heaven, Their Source Divine; Refracted Through The Mist Of Years, How Red My Setting Sun Appears, How Lurid Looks This Soul Of Mine!

The Tragic Element In Poetry Is Like Saturn In Alchemy, — The Malevolent, The Destroyer Of Nature ; But Without It No True Aurum Potabile, Or Elixir Of Life, Can Be Made.

Our Pleasures And Our Discontents, Are Rounds By Which We May Ascend.

The Human Voice Is The Organ Of The Soul.