Hearts That Are Delicate And Kind And

How It Infuriates A Bigot, When He Is Forced To Drag Out His Dark Convictions!

Most People Sell Their Souls, And Live With A Good Conscience On The Proceeds.

A Friend Who Loved Perfection Would Be The Perfect Friend, Did Not That Love Shut His Door On Me.

One's Own Vanities And Humiliations I Find A Delicious Subject For Conversation. Things Said Of Me Behind My Back I Don't Enjoy, And Don't Listen To Them.

What Shall I Compare It To, This Fantastic Thing I Call My Mind? To A Waste-paper Basket, To A Sieve Choked With Sediment, Or To A Barrel Full Of Floating Froth And Refuse? No, What It Is Really Most Like Is A Spider's Web, Insecurely Hung On Leaves And Twigs, Quivering In Every Wind, And Sprinkled With Dewdrops And Dead Flies. And At Its Centre, Pondering Forever The Problem Of Existence, Sits Motionless The Spider-like And Uncanny Soul.