How Awful To Reflect That What People

There Are People Who, Like Houses, Are Beautiful In Dilapidation.

A Best-seller Is The Gilded Tomb Of A Mediocre Talent

People Say That Life Is The Thing, But I Prefer Reading.

What Shall I Compare It To, This Fantastic Thing I Call My Mind? To A Waste-paper Basket, To A Sieve Choked With Sediment, Or To A Barrel Full Of Floating Froth And Refuse? No, What It Is Really Most Like Is A Spider's Web, Insecurely Hung On Leaves And Twigs, Quivering In Every Wind, And Sprinkled With Dewdrops And Dead Flies. And At Its Centre, Pondering Forever The Problem Of Existence, Sits Motionless The Spider-like And Uncanny Soul.

How Often My Soul Visits The National Gallery, And How Seldom