Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance.

And all I loved, I loved alone.

the truth is, I am heartily sick of this life & of the nineteenth century in general. (I am convinced that every thing is going wrong.)

...And, all at once, the moon arouse through the thin ghastly mist, And was crimson in color... And they lynx which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom. And lay down at the feet of the demon. And looked at him steadily in the face.

A poem in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having for its immediate object, pleasure, not truth.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night.

...the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long and final scream of despair.