Invisible Things Are The Only Realities.

But In The Expression Of The Countenance, Which Was Beaming All Over With Smiles, There Still Lurked (incomprehensible Anomalyl) That Fitful Strain Of Melancholy Which Will Ever Be Found Inseparable From The Perfection Of The Beautiful.

But Psyche Uplifting Her Finger Said: Sadly This Star I Mistrust

Mysteries Force A Man To Think, And So Injure His Health.

I Have No Words Alas! To Tell The Loveliness Of Loving Well

Poetry Is The Rhythmical Creation Of Beauty In Words.