No Voice; But Oh -

Remorse Is As The Heart In Which It Grows; If That Be Gentle, It Drops Balmy Dews Of True Repentance; But If Proud And Gloomy, It Is The Poison Tree, That Pierced To The Inmost, Weeps Only Tears Of Poison.

The Language Of The Dream/night Is Contrary To That Of Waking/day. It Is A Language Of Images And Sensations, The Various Dialects Of Which Are Far Less Different From Each Other, Than The Various Day-languages Of Nations.

Chance Is But The Pseudonym Of God For Those Particular Cases, Which He Does Not Choose To Acknowledge Openly With His Own Sign Manual.

For She Belike Hath Drunken Deep Of All The Blessedness Of Sleep.

Ah Why Refuse The Blameless Bliss? Can Danger Lurk Within A Kiss?