Heard Melodies Are Sweet, But Those Unheard

I Shall Soon Be Laid In The Quiet Grave - Thank God For The Quiet Grave

Whatever The Imagination Seizes As Beauty Must Be Truth -whether It Existed Before Or Not

My Passions Are All Asleep From My Having Slumbered Till Nearly Eleven And Weakened The Animal Fiber All Over Me To A Delightful Sensation About Three Degrees On This Sight Of Faintness - If I Had Teeth Of Pearl And The Breath Of Lilies I Should Call It Languor - But As I Am I Must Call It Laziness. In This State Of Effeminacy The Fibers Of The Brain Are Relaxed In Common With The Rest Of The Body, And To Such A Happy Degree That Pleasure Has No Show Of Enticement And Pain No Unbearable Frown. Neither Poetry, Nor Ambition, Nor Love Have Any Alertness Of Countenance As They Pass By Me.

That Queen Of Secrecy, The Violet.

You Are Always New, The Last Of Your Kisses Was Ever The Sweetest.