Who cares how time advances? I am drinking ale today.

Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.

I could have clasped the red walls to my bosom as a garment of eternal peace. "Death," I said, "any death but that of the pit!" Fool! might I have not known that into the pit it was the object of the burning iron to urge me?

Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance.

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

In other words, I believed, and still do believe, that truth, is frequently of its own essence, superficial, and that, in many cases, the depth lies more in the abysses where we seek her, than in the actual situations wherein she may be found.

The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of Artist