If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.

Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?

Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep From leaf to leaf.

Liberty - eternal spirit of the chainless mind

Tyranny is for the worst of treasons.

Eternity forbids thee to forget.

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.