I Would Sooner Fail Than Not Be

Pensive They Sit, And Roll Their Languid Eyes.

I Have Two Luxuries To Brood Over In My Walks, Your Loveliness And The Hour Of My Death. O That I Could Have Possession Of Them Both In The Same Minute.

For Axioms In Philosophy Are Not Axioms Until They Are Proved Upon Our Pulses.

Turn The Key Deftly In The Oiled Wards, And Seal The Hushed Casket Of My Soul.

I Should Write For The Mere Yearning And Fondness I Have For The Beautiful, Even If My Night's Labors Should Be Burnt Every Morning And No Eye Shine Upon Them.