Make Not Thyself The Judge Of Any

There Are Things Of Which I May Not Speak; There Are Dreams That Cannot Die; There Are Thoughts That Make The Strong Heart Weak, And Bring A Pallor Into The Cheek, And A Mist Before The Eye.

Critics Are Sentinels In The Grand Army Of Letters, Stationed At The Corners Of Newspapers And Reviews, To Challenge Every New Author.

Burn, O Evening Hearth, And Waken Pleasant Visions, As Of Old! Though The House By Winds Be Shaken, Safe I Keep This Room Of Gold!

The Morrow Was A Bright September Morn; The Earth Was Beautiful As If Newborn; There Was Nameless Splendor Everywhere, That Wild Exhilaration In The Air, Which Makes The Passers In The City Street Congratulate Each Other As They Meet.

The World Loves A Spice Of Wickedness.