I Only Go Out To Get Me

The Heart Will Break, But Broken Live On.

In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

Tis The Perception Of The Beautiful, A Fine Extension Of The Faculties, Platonic, Universal, Wonderful, Drawn From The Stars, And Filtered Through The Skies, Without Which Life Would Be Extremely Dull

As To Don Juan, Confess That It Is The Sublime Of That There Sort Of Writing; It May Be Bawdy, But Is It Not Good English? It May Be Profligate, But Is It Not Life, Is It Not The Thing? Could Any Man Have Written It Who Has Not Lived In The World? And Tooled In A Post-chaise? In A Hackney Coach? In A Gondola? Against A Wall? In A Court Carriage? In A Vis A Vis? On A Table? And Under It?

Nothing So Difficult As A Beginning In Poesy, Unless Perhaps The End.