I wonder if it hurts to live, And if they have to try, And whether, could they choose between, They would not rather die.

Much Madness is Divinest Sense, to a Discerning Eye.

I dwell in possibilities... a fairer house than prose.

The hearts that never lean must fall.

Love can do all but raise the Dead.

I would like more sisters, that the taking out of one, might not leave such stillness.

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege I think.