Romanticism Is Beauty Without Bounds-the Beautiful Infinite.

Despair Is The Only Genuine Atheism.

As A Man Grows Older It Is Harder And Harder To Frighten Him.

There Is A Joy In Sorrow Which None But A Mourner Can Know.

He Thought Of The Mouldering Child, Which Laid Its Withered Thin Arms Around His Soul, As If It Were His Own, And To Whom Death Had Given As Much As A God Gave To Endymion, — Sleep, Eternal Youth, And Immortality.

Man Has Here Two And A Half Minutes-one To Smile, One To Sigh, And A Half To Love: For In The Midst Of This Minute He Dies.