Women Being The Weaker Vessels, Are Ever

If The Skin Were Parchment And The Blows You Gave Were Ink, Your Own Handwriting Would Tell You What I Think.

A King Of Infinite Space

O Horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue Nor Heart Cannot Conceive Nor Name Thee!

Let Fancy Still In My Sense In Lethe Steep; If It Be Thus To Dream, Still Let Me Sleep!

Thou Ever Young, Fresh, Lov'd, And Delicate Wooer, Whose Blush Doth Thaw The Consecrated Snow