Where The Good And The

The Customs Of The World Are So Many Conventional Follies.

The Fever Called "living" Is Conquer'd At Last.

But Evil Things, In Robes Of Sorrow, Assailed The Monarch's High Estate; (ah, Let Us Mourn, For Never Morrow Shall Dawn Upon Him Desolate!) And Round About His Home The Glory That Blushed And Bloomed, Is But A Dim-remembered Story Of The Old Time Entombed.

Melancholy Is ... The Most Legitimate Of All The Poetical Tones.

I Was Never Really Insane Except Upon Occasions When My Heart Was Touched.