I Am Alone And Miserable.

I Shall Commit My Thoughts To Paper, It Is True; But That Is A Poor Medium For The Communication Of Feeling. I Desire The Company Of A Man Who Could Sympathize With Me, Whose Eyes Would Reply To Mine.

I Required Kindness And Sympathy, But I Did Not Believe Myself Utterly Unworthy Of It.

Polluted By Crimes, And Torn By The Bitterest Remorse, Where Can I Find Rest But In Death?

Precious Attribute Of Woe-worn Humanity! That Can Snatch Ecstatic Emotion, Even From Under The Very Share And Harrow, That Ruthlessly Ploughs Up And Lays Waste Every Hope.

When I Run Over The Frightful Catalogue Of My Sins, I Cannot Believe That I Am The Same Creature Whose Thoughts Were Once Filled With Sublime And Transcendent Visions Of The Beauty And The Majesty Of Goodness. But It Is Even So; The Fallen Angel Becomes A Malignant Devil.