I am ashes where once I was fire.

I learned to love despair.

One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine.

Tis strange,-but true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold!

Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast.

Oh! too convincing--dangerously dear-- In woman's eye the unanswerable tear! That weapon of her weakness she can wield, To save, subdue--at once her spear and shield.

A small drop of ink makes thousands, perhaps millions... think.