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

There is no beauty without some strangeness

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

In the deepest slumber-no! In delirium-no! In a swoon-no! In death-no! even in the grave all is not lost.

Of puns it has been said that those who most dislike them are those who are least able to utter them.

And because our reason violently deters us from the brink, therefore, do we the more impetuously approach it. There is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him, who shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a plunge. To indulge for a moment, in any attempt at thought, is to be inevitably lost; for reflection but urges us to forbear, and therefore it is, I say, that we cannot. If there be no friendly arm to check us, or if we fail in a sudden effort to prostrate ourselves backward from the abyss, we plunge, and are destroyed.

If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.