The Thought, The Deadly Thought Of Solitude.

Ask Yourself My Love Whether You Are Not Very Cruel To Have So Entrammelled Me, So Destroyed My Freedom. Will You Confess This In The Letter You Must Write Immediately, And Do All You Can To Console Me In It — Make It Rich As A Draught Of Poppies To Intoxicate Me —write The Softest Words And Kiss Them That I May At Least Touch My Lips Where Yours Have Been. For Myself I Know Not How To Express My Devotion To So Fair A Form: I Want A Brighter Word Than Bright, A Fairer Word Than Fair.

I Have Good Reason To Be Content, For Thank God I Can Read And Perhaps Understand Shakespeare To His Depths.

Soft Closer Of Our Eyes! Low Murmur Of Tender Lullabies!

The Genius Of Shakespeare Was An Innate University.

It Can Be Said Of Him, When He Departed He Took A Man's Life With Him. No Sounder Piece Of British Manhood Was Put Together In That Eighteenth Century Of Time.