Every moment of the night Forever changing places And they put out the star-light With the breath from their pale faces

Experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger portion of the truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant.

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,- Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

You call it hope-that fire of fire! It is but agony of desire.

I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as the Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is taste. With the intellect or with the conscience, it has only collateral relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with duty or with truth.

Never to suffer would have been never to have been blessed.

Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.