Listlessness To Everything, But Brooding Sorrow, Was

Can I View Thee Panting, Lying On Thy Stomach, Without Sighing; Can I Unmoved See Thee Dying On A Log Expiring Frog!

The Meagre Lighthouse All In White, Haunting The Seaboard, As If It Were The Ghost Of An Edifice That Had Once Had Colour And Rotundity, Dripped Melancholy Tears After Its Late Buffeting By The Waves.

You Know What I Am Going To Say. I Love You. What Other Men May Mean When They Use That Expression, I Cannot Tell. What I Mean Is That I Am Under The Influence Of Some Tremendous Attraction Which I Have Resisted In Vain, And Which Overmasters Me. You Could Draw Me To Fire, You Could Draw Me To Water, You Could Draw Me To The Gallows, You Could Draw Me To Any Death, You Could Draw Me To Anything I Have Most Avoided, You Could Draw Me To Any Exposure And Disgrace. This And The Confusion Of My Thoughts, So That I Am Fit For Nothing, Is What I Mean By Your Being The Ruin Of Me.

I Have Heard It Said That As We Keep Our Birthdays When We Are Alive, So The Ghosts Of Dead People, Who Are Not Easy In Their Graves, Keep The Day They Died Upon.

Indeed The Worthy Housewife Was Of Such A Capricious Nature, That She Not Only Attained A Higher Pitch Of Genius Than Macbeth, In Respect Of Her Ability To Be Wise, Amazed, Temperate And Furious, Loyal And Neutral In An Instant, But Would Sometimes Ring The Changes Backwards And Forwards On All Possible Moods And Flights In One Short Quarter Of An Hour; Performing, As It Were, A Kind Of Triple Bob Major On The Peal Of Instruments In The Female Belfry, With A Skilfulness And Rapidity Of Execution That Astonished All Who Heard Her.