I Do Detest Everything Which Is Not

Ye Stars! Which Are The Poetry Of Heaven!

They Never Fail Who Die In A Great Cause.

My Slumbers--if I Slumber--are Not Sleep, But A Continuance Of Enduring Thought, Which Then I Can Resist Not: In My Heart There Is A Vigil, And These Eyes But Close To Look Within; And Yet I Live, And Bear The Aspect And The Form Of Breathing Men.

What Deep Wounds Ever Closed Without A Scar?

One Of The Pleasures Of Reading Old Letters Is The Knowledge That They Need No Answer.