the truth is, I am heartily sick of this life & of the nineteenth century in general. (I am convinced that every thing is going wrong.)
Even in the grave, all is not lost.
A million candles have burned themselves out. Still I read on. (Montresor)
I fell in love with melancholy
In the deepest slumber-no! In delirium-no! In a swoon-no! In death-no! even in the grave all is not lost.
With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.