Beauty Of Whatever Kind, In

I Have Before Suggested That A Genuine Blackguard Is Never Without A Pocket-handkerchief.

In Efforts To Soar Above Our Nature, We Invariably Fall Below It.

And Darkness And Decay And The Red Death Held Illimitable Dominion Over All.

I Seemed To Be Upon The Verge Of Comprehension, Without The Power To Comprehend As Men, At Time, Find Themselves Upon The Brink Of Rememberance, Without Being Able, In The End, To Remember.

A Poem Deserves Its Title Only Inasmuch As It Excites, By Elevating The Soul.