In Me Didst Thou Exist-and, In My

You Call It Hope-that Fire Of Fire! It Is But Agony Of Desire.

Mysteries Force A Man To Think, And So Injure His Health.

There Was Much Of The Beautiful, Much Of The Wanton, Much Of The Bizarre, Something Of The Terrible, And Not A Little Of That Which Might Have Excited Disgust.

A Fool, For Example, Thinks Shakespeare A Great Poet . . . Yet The Fool Has Never Read Shakespeare.

A Dirge For Her The Doubly Dead In That She Died So Young.