I Learned To Love Despair.

Talent May Be In Time Forgiven, But Genius Never

So Do The Dark In Soul Expire, Or Live Like Scorpion Girt By Fire; So Writhes The Mind Remorse Hath Riven, Unfit For Earth, Undoom'd For Heaven, Darkness Above, Despair Beneath, Around It Flame, Within It Death.

This Sort Of Adoration Of The Real Is But A Heightening Of The Beau Ideal.

Like Other Parties Of The Kind, It Was First Silent, Then Talky, Then Argumentative, Then Disputatious, Then Unintelligible, Then Altogether, Then Inarticulate, And Then Drunk. When We Had Reached The Last Step Of This Glorious Ladder, It Was Difficult To Get Down Again Without Stumbling.

No Words Suffice The Secret Soul To Show, For Truth Denies All Eloquence To Woe.