Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.

I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.

Ancient of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were; First in the race that led to glory's goal, They won, and pass'd away--Is this the whole?

A woman being never at a loss... the devil always sticks by them.

Despair and Genius are too oft connected

Let us have wine and woman, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda water the day after. Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; The best of life is but intoxication: Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk The hopes of all men, and of every nation; Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion: But to return--Get very drunk; and when You wake with head-ache, you shall see what then.