There is no traitor like him whose domestic treason plants the poniard within the breast that trusted to his truth

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

That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane

The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

What should I have known or written had I been a quiet, mercantile politician or a lord in waiting? A man must travel, and turmoil, or there is no existence.

Just as old age is creeping on space, And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company--the gout or stone.

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