Even In The Grave, All

I Fell In Love With Melancholy

You Call It Hope-that Fire Of Fire! It Is But Agony Of Desire.

Tell A Scoundrel, Three Or Four Times A Day, That He Is The Pink Of Probity, And You Make Him At Least The Perfection Of "respectability" In Good Earnest. On The Other Hand, Accuse An Honorable Man, Too Petinaciously, Of Being A Villain, And You Fill Him With A Perverse Ambition To Show You That You Are Not Altogether In The Wrong.

The Nose Of A Mob Is Its Imagination. By This, At Any Time, It Can Be Quietly Led.

In Me Didst Thou Exist-and, In My Death, See By This Image, Which Is Thine Own, How Utterly Thou Hast Murdered Thyself.