Like A Glowworm Golden, In A Dell

The Pleasure That Is In Sorrow Is Sweeter Than The Pleasure Of Pleasure Itself.

I Fall Upon The Thorns Of Life.

Poets Are The Hierophants Of An Unapprehended Inspiration; The Mirrors Of The Gigantic Shadows Which Futurity Casts Upon The Present.

Ah, Woe Is Me! Winter Is Come And Gone. But Grief Returns With The Revolving Year.

He Wanders, Like A Day-appearing Dream, Through The Dim Wildernesses Of The Mind; Through Desert Woods And Tracts, Which Seem Like Ocean, Homeless, Boundless, Unconfined.