So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.

The world is too brutal for me-I am glad there is such a thing as the grave-I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.

Are there not thousands in the world who love their fellows even to the death, who feel the giant agony of the world, and more, like slaves to poor humanity, labor for mortal good?

Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them; thou has thy music too.

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget.

I equally dislike the favor of the public with the love of a woman - they are both a cloying treacle to the wings of independence.

Many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death.