Perversity is the human thirst for self-torture.

Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells, From the bells, bells, bells.

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

Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem per se, the circumstance ... which, in the first place, gave rise to the intention of composing a poem that should suit at once the popular and the critical taste.

We had always dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley of the Many Colored Grass.

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

A mystery, and a dream, should my early life seem.