To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all.

Your thief looks Exactly like the rest, or rather better; 'Tis only at the bar, and in the dungeon, That wise men know your felon by his features.

The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew, The mourn'd, the loved, the lost,-too many, yet how few!

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

Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life.

We of the craft are all crazy.

Absence - that common cure of love.