I Deeply Wished I Could Make The

It Was One Of Those Somber Evenings When The Sighing Of The Wind Resembles The Moans Of A Dying Man; A Storm Was Brewing, And Between The Splashes Of Rain On The Windows There Was The Silence Of Death. All Nature Suffers In Such Moments; The Trees Writhe In Pain And Twist Their Heads; The Birds Of The Fields Cower Under The Bushes; The Streets Of Cities Are Deserted.

Vanity And Dignity Are Incompatible With Each Other; Vain Women Are Almost Sure To Be Vulnerable.

Romanticism Is The Abuse Of Adjectives

As All The Perfumes Of The Vanished Dayrise From The Earth Still Moistened With The Dewso From My Chastened Soul Beneath Thy Rayold Love Is Born Anew.

Great Artists Have No Country.