Our Faults Are Apt To

How Dreadful It Is, To Emerge From The Oblivion Of Slumber, And To Receive As A Good Morrow The Mute Wailing Of One's Own Hapless Heart - To Return From The Land Of Deceptive Dreams To The Heavy Knowledge Of Unchanged Disaster!

...if I See But One Smile On Your Lips When We Meet, Occasioned By This Or Any Other Exertion Of Mine, I Shall Need No Other Happiness.

...once I Falsely Hoped To Meet The Beings Who, Pardoning My Outward Form, Would Love Me For The Excellent Qualities Which I Was Capable Of Unfolding.

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.

My Own Mind Began To Grow, Watchful With Anxoius Thoughts.