The form of truth will bear exposure, as well as that of beauty herself.
Force yourself to reflect on what you read, paragraph by paragraph.
Remorse weeps tears of blood.
Joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloud. We in ourselves rejoice! And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, all melodies the echoes of that voice, all colours a suffusion from that light.
About, about, in reel and rout the death fires danced at night.
Every crime has, in the moment of its perpetration, Its own avenging angel-dark misgiving, An ominous sinking at the inmost heart.