Whatever Tears One May Shed, In The

I Do Not Know If She Was Virtuous, But She Was Ugly, And With A Woman That Is Half The Battle.

Where Words Leave Off, Music Begins.

Perhaps Already I Am Dead, And These Perhaps Are Phantoms Vain; - These Motley Phantasies That Pass At Night Through My Disordered Brain. Perhaps With Ancient Heathen Shapes, Old Faded Gods, This Brain Is Full; Who, For Their Most Unholy Rites, Have Chosen A Dead Poet's Skull.

No Talent, But Yet A Character. [ger., Kein Talent, Doch Ein Charakter.]

He That Marries Is Like The Dogs Who Was Married To The Adriatic. He Knows Not What There Is In That Which He Marries; Mayhap Treasures And Pearls, Mayhap Monsters And Tempests, Await Him.