That Sweet Sleep Which Medicines All Pain.

In The Infancy Of Society Every Author Is Necessarily A Poet

To Be Omnipotent But Friendless Is To Reign.

Narrow The Heart That Loves, The Brain That Contemplates, The Life That Wears, The Spirit That Creates One Object, And One Form, And Builds Thereby A Sepulchre For Its Eternity.

Woe Is Me! The Winged Words On Which My Soul Would Pierce Into The Heights Of Love's Rare Universe, Are Chains Of Lead Around Its Flight Of Fire-- I Pant, I Sink, I Tremble, I Expire.

Power, Like A Desolating Pestilence, Pollutes Whatever It Touches.