The Heart Is Its Own Fate.

Thou Art A Woman, And That Is Saying The Best And Worst Of Thee.

The Temples Perish, But The God Still Lives.

I Am Tired Of Looking On What Is, One Might As Well See Beauty Never More, As Look Upon It With An Empty Eye. I Would This World Were Over. I Am Tired.

Where Doubt There Truth Is - 'tis Her Shadow.

The Poet's Pen Is The True Divining Rod Which Trembles Towards The Inner Founts Of Feeling; Bringing To Light And Use, Else Hid From All, The Many Sweet Clear Sources Which We Have Of Good And Beauty In Our Own Deep Bosoms; And Marks The Variations Of All Mind As Does The Needle.