Wrinkles On The Brow Are The Imprints

I Felt For My Crime A Just Terror; I Looked On My Life With Hate, And My Passion With Horror.

All Is Asleep: The Army, The Wind, And Neptune.

A Noble Heart Cannot Suspect In Others The Pettiness And Malice That It Has Never Felt.

Vice, Like Virtue, Grows In Small Steps, And No True Innocence Can Ever Fall At Once To Deepest Guilt.

I Have Loved Him Too Much Not To Hate