Music is a strange thing. I would almost say it is a miracle.

Never let a fool kiss you, or a kiss fool you. Oh, what lies there are in kisses!

Perhaps already I am dead, And these perhaps are phantoms vain; - These motley phantasies that pass At night through my disordered brain. Perhaps with ancient heathen shapes, Old faded gods, this brain is full; Who, for their most unholy rites, Have chosen a dead poet's skull.

The dragon-fly is dancing, - Is on the water glancing, She flits about with nimble wing, The flickering, fluttering, restless thing. Besotted chafers all admire Her light-blue, gauze-like, neat attire; They laud her blue complexion, And think her shape perfection.

God will forgive me. It's his job.

She resembles the Venus de Milo: she is very old, has no teeth, and has white spots on her yellow skin.

Ask me not what I have, but what I am.