My life has crept so long on a broken wing Through cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing.
Virtue must shape itself in deed.
Woman is the lesser man.
Forgive! How many will say, forgive, and find a sort of absolution in the sound to hate a little longer!
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand the downward slope to death.
Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.