Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end.
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.
Damn description, it is always disgusting.
Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty.
But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.
A small drop of ink makes thousands, perhaps millions... think.