My Heart Aches, And A Drowsy Numbness

Where The Nightingale Doth Sing Not A Senseless, Tranced Thing, But Divine Melodious Truth.

There Is Not A Fiercer Hell Than The Failure In A Great Object.

I Could Be Martyred For My Religion. Love Is My Religion And I Could Die For That. I Could Die For You.

Literary Men Are . . . A Perpetual Priesthood.

I Wish You Could Invent Some Means To Make Me At All Happy Without You. Every Hour I Am More And More Concentrated In You; Everything Else Tastes Like Chaff In My Mouth.