It Is Not For Minds Like Ours

Oh! Might I Kiss Those Eyes Of Fire, A Million Scarce Would Quench Desire; Still Would I Steep My Lips In Bliss, And Dwell An Age On Every Kiss; Nor Then My Soul Should Sated Be, Still Would I Kiss And Cling To Thee: Nought Should My Kiss From Thine Dissever, Still Would We Kiss And Kiss For Ever; E'en Though The Numbers Did Exceed The Yellow Harvest's Countless Seed; To Part Would Be A Vain Endeavour: Could I Desist? -ah! Never-never.

Poetry Should Only Occupy The Idle.

That Low Vice, Curiosity!

In Commitment, We Dash The Hopes Of A Thousand Potential Selves.

Romances I Ne'er Read Like Those I Have Seen.