Everything we look upon is blest.

What shall I do with this absurdity- O heart, O troubled heart-this caricature, Decrepit age that has been tied to me As to a dog's tail? Never had I more Excited, passionate, fantastical Imagination, nor an ear and eye That more expected the impossible.

Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.

I gave what other women gave That stepped out of their clothes But when this soul, its body off Naked to naked goes, He it has found shall find therein What none other knows.

I am still of opinion that only two topics can be of the least interest to a serious and studious mood - sex and the dead.

Before me floats an image, man or shade, / Shade more than man, more image than a shade.

Love comes in at the eye.