Invisible Things Are The Only Realities.

Man's Real Life Is Happy, Chiefly Because He Is Ever Expecting That It Soon Will Be So.

Men Die Nightly In Their Beds, Wringing The Hands Of Ghostly Confessors ... On Account Of The Hideousness Of Mysteries Which Will Not Suffer Themselves To Be Revealed.

Thou Wouldst Be Loved? - Then Let Thy Heart From Its Present Pathway Part Not! Being Everything Which Now Thou Art, Be Nothing Which Thou Art Not. So With The World Thy Gentle Ways, Thy Grace, Thy More Than Beauty, Shall Be An Endless Theme Of Praise, And Love - A Simple Duty.

...the Agony Of My Soul Found Vent In One Loud, Long And Final Scream Of Despair.

And All I Loved, I Loved Alone.