O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.

I cannot exist without you - I am forgetful of every thing but seeing you again - my Life seems to stop there - I see no further. You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.

Thou art a dreaming thing, A fever of thyself.

When the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.

Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?

You speak of Lord Byron and me; there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.

His religion at best is an anxious wish,-like that of Rabelais, a great Perhaps.