O Poor Mortals, How Ye Make This

Close Thy Byron ; Open Thy Goethe .

All Evil Is Like A Nightmare; The Instant You Stir Under It, The Evil Is Gone.

Is Man’s Civilization Only A Wrappage, Through Which The Savage Nature Of Him Can Still Burst, Infernal As Ever?

"love Is Not Altogether A Delirium," Says He Elsewhere; "yet Has It Many Points In Common Therewith."

The Dust Of Controversy Is Merely The Falsehood Flying Off.