I felt it shelter to speak to you.

Time is short and full, like an outgrown Frock - .

This is my letter to the world That never wrote to me

A little Madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King.

The Soul selects her own Society.

I died for beauty but was scarce Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was lain In an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed? "For beauty," I replied. "And I for truth, the two are one; We brethren are," he said. And so, as kinsmen met a night, We talked between the rooms, Until the moss had reached our lips, And covered up our names.

Why should we censure Othello when the Criterion Lover says, "Thou shalt have no other Gods before Me"?