I Am The Self-consumer Of My Woes.

My Fears Are Agitated To An Extreme Degree And The Dread Of Death Involves Me In A Stupor Of Chilling Indisposition.

Into The Nothingness Of Scorn And Noise, Into The Living Sea Of Waking Dreams, Where There Is Neither Sense Of Life Or Joys, But The Vast Shipwreck Of My Life's Esteems; And E'en The Dearest--that I Love The Best-- Are Strange--nay, Rather Stranger Than The Rest.

Love Lives With Nature, Not With Lust. Go Find Her In The Flowers.

I Found The Poems In The Fields And Only Wrote Them Down

Language Has Not The Power To Speak What Love Indites: The Soul Lies Buried In The Ink That Writes.