Poetry Is The Morning Dream Of Great

Void Of Freedom, What Would Virtue Be?

If They Say "you Have Your Last Chance To Look At The World", I Wish That Look Would From Çamlıca Of Istanbul.

Death, With Funereal Shades In Vain Surrounds Me, My Reason Through His Darkness Seeth Light: 'tis The Last Step Which Brings Me Close To Thee: 'tis The Veil Falling, 'twixt Thy Face And Mine.

Ink Is The Transcript Of Thought.

All Our Tastes Are But Reminiscences.