There Are Some Secrets Which Do Not

I Was Never Kinder To The Old Man Than During The Whole Week Before I Killed Him.

Let My Heart Be Still A Moment And This Mystery Explore.

With Me Poetry Has Not Been A Purpose, But A Passion.

Ah, Distinctly I Remember It Was In The Bleak December; And Each Separate Dying Ember Wrought Its Ghost Upon The Floor. Eagerly, I Wished The Morrow; - Vainly I Had Sought To Borrow From My Books Surcease Of Sorrow - Sorrow For The Lost Leonore - For The Rare And Radiant Maiden Who The Angels Name Lenore - Nameless Here For Evermore.

Beauty Of Whatever Kind, In Its Supreme Development, Invariably Excites The Sensitive Soul To Tears.