I have great faith in fools,— self-confidence my friends will call it.

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

Deep in earth my love is lying And I must weep alone.

The rain came down upon my head - Unshelter'd. And the wind rendered me mad and deaf and blind.

To speak algebraically, Mr. M. is execrable, but Mr. G. is (x + 1)- ecrable.

Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence.

I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms.