We gave the Future to the winds, and slumbered tranquilly in the Present, weaving the dull world around us into dreams.

And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.

Scorching my seared heart with a pain, not hell shall make me fear again.

Tell me truly, I implore-- Is there-- is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!

We now demand the light artillery of the intellect; we need the curt, the condensed, the pointed, the readily diffused -- in place of the verbose, the detailed, the voluminous, the inaccessible.

It is the curse of a certain order of mind, that it can never rest satisfied with the consciousness of its ability to do a thing.Still less is it content with doing it. It must both know and show how it was done.

And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but overacuteness of the senses?