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O Thou Beautiful And Unimaginable Ether! And Ye Multiplying Masses Of Increased And Still Increasing Lights! What Are Ye? What Is This Blue Wilderness Of Interminable Air, Where Ye Roll Along, As I Have Seen The Leaves Along The Limpid Streams Of Eden? Is Your Course Measur'd For Ye? Or Do Ye Sweep On In Your Unbounded Revelry Through An Aerial Universe Of Endless Expansion,--at Which My Soul Aches To Think,-- Intoxicated With Eternity.

-Lord Byron

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O Thou Beautiful And

Lord Byron

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O Thou Beautiful And Unimaginable Ether! And Ye Multiplying Masses Of Increased And Still Increasing Lights! What Are Ye? What Is This Blue Wilderness Of Interminable Air, Where Ye Roll Along, As I Have Seen The Leaves Along The Limpid Streams Of Eden? Is Your Course Measur'd For Ye? Or Do Ye Sweep On In Your Unbounded Revelry Through An Aerial Universe Of Endless Expansion,--at Which My Soul Aches To Think,-- Intoxicated With Eternity.

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Shakespeare's Name, You May Depend On It, Stands Absurdly Too High And Will Go Down.

It Is Not One Man Nor A Million, But The Spirit Of Liberty That Must Be Preserved. The Waves Which Dash Upon The Shore Are, One By One, Broken, But The Ocean Conquers Nevertheless. It Overwhelms The Armada, It Wears Out The Rock. In Like Manner, Whatever The Struggle Of Individuals, The Great Cause Will Gather Strength.

I Am As Comfortless As A Pilgrim With Peas In His Shoes - And As Cold As Charity, Chastity Or Any Other Virtue.

A Drop Of Ink May Make A Million Think.

They Never Fail Who Die In A Great Cause.

Christians Have Burnt Each Other, Quite Persuaded. That All The Apostles Would Have Done As They Did.

So For A Good Old-gentlemanly Vice, I Think I Must Take Up With Avarice.

Earth! Render Back From Out Thy Breast A Remnant Of Our Spartan Dead! Of The Three Hundred Grant But Three, To Make A New Thermopylæ!

I Loved My Country, And I Hated Him.

Nothing So Difficult As A Beginning In Poesy, Unless Perhaps The End.

Absence - That Common Cure Of Love.

There Is Music In All Things, If Men Had Ears.

There's Naught, No Doubt, So Much The Spirit Calms As Rum And True Religion.

What Opposite Discoveries We Have Seen! (signs Of True Genius, And Of Empty Pockets.) One Makes New Noses, One A Guillotine, One Breaks Your Bones, One Sets Them In Their Sockets; But Vaccination Certainly Has Been A Kind Antithesis To Congreve's Rockets.

The Christian Has Greatly The Advantage Of The Unbeliever, Having Everything To Gain And Nothing To Lose.

Nothing To Lose

Man's Love Is Of Man's Life A Part; It Is A Woman's Whole Existence. In Her First Passion, A Woman Loves Her Lover, In All The Others All She Loves Is Love.

Once More Upon The Waters! Yet Once More! And The Waves Bound Beneath Me As A Steed That Knows His Rider.

Oh, Christ! It Is A Goodly Sight To See What Heaven Hath Done For This Delicious Land!

But What Is Hope? Nothing But The Paint On The Face Of Existence; The Least Touch Of Truth Rubs It Off, And Then We See What A Hollow-cheeked Harlot We Have Got Hold Of.

I Came To Realize Clearly That The Mind Is No Other Than The Mountain And The Rivers And The Great Wide Earth, The Sun And The Moon And The Sky”.

Then Stirs The Feeling Infinite, So Felt In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

Marriage, From Love, Like Vinegar From Wine-- A Sad, Sour Sober Beverage--by Time Is Sharpened From Its High Celestial Flavor Down To A Very Homely Household Savor.

In Commitment, We Dash The Hopes Of A Thousand Potential Selves.

I Am Surrounded Here By Parsons And Methodists, But As You Will See, Not Infested With The Mania.

Positive Atheism

Bologna Is Celebrated For Producing Popes, Painters, And Sausage.

A Woman Who Gives Any Advantage To A Man May Expect A Lover - But Will Sooner Or Later Find A Tyrant.

The 'good Old Times' - All Times When Old Are Good.

Of Religion I Know Nothing -- At Least, In Its Favor.

Positive Atheism

Sorrow Preys Upon Its Solitude, And Nothing More Diverts It From Its Sad Visions Of The Other World Than Calling It At Moments Back To This. The Busy Have No Time For Tears.

I Shall Soon Be Six-and-twenty. Is There Anything In The Future That Can Possibly Console Us For Not Being Always Twenty-five?

Ecclesiastes Said That "all Is Vanity," Most Modern Preachers Say The Same, Or Show It By Their Examples Of True Christianity: In Short, All Know, Or Very Short May Know It.

But I Had Not Quite Fixed Whether To Make Him [don Juan] End In Hell-or In An Unhappy Marriage,-not Knowing Which Would Be The Severest.

...and These Vicissitudes Come Best In Youth; For When They Happen At A Riper Age, People Are Apt To Blame The Fates, Forsooth, And Wonder Providence Is Not More Sage. Adversity Is The First Path To Truth: He Who Hath Proved War, Storm, Or Woman's Rage, Whether His Winters Be Eighteen Or Eighty, Has Won Experience Which Is Deem'd So Weighty.

O Fame! If I Ever Took Delight In Thy Praises, Twas Less For The Sake Of Thy High-sounding Phrases, Than To See The Bright Eyes Of The Dear One Discover The Thought That I Was Not Unworthy To Love Her.

We Have Fools In All Sects, And Impostors In Most; Why Should I Believe Mysteries No One Can Understand, Because Written By Men Who Chose To Mistake Madness For Inspiration And Style Themselves Evangelicals?

They Used To Say That Knowledge Is Power. I Used To Think So, But I Know Now They Mean Money.

Champagne With Its Foaming Whirls/as White As Cleopatra's Pearls.

Send Me No More Reviews Of Any Kind. I Will Read No More Of Evil Or Good In That Line. Walter Scott Has Not Read A Review Of Himself For Thirteen Years .

Sometimes We Are Less Unhappy In Being Deceived By Those We Love, Than In Being Undeceived By Them.

Man, Being Reasonable, Must Get Drunk; The Best Of Life Is But Intoxication.

For What Were All These Country Patriots Born? To Hunt, And Vote, And Raise The Price Of Corn?

A Woman Being Never At A Loss... The Devil Always Sticks By Them.

I Feel My Immortality Over Sweep All Pains, All Tears, All Time, All Fears, - And Peal, Like The Eternal Thunders Of The Deep, Into My Ears, This Truth, - Thou Livest Forever!

I Was Accused Of Every Monstrous Vice By Public Rumour And Private Rancour; My Name, Which Had Been A Knightly Or Noble One, Was Tainted. I Felt That, If What Was Whispered, And Muttered, And Murmured, Was True, I Was Unfit For England; If False, England Was Unfit For Me.

I've Seen Your Stormy Seas And Stormy Women, And Pity Lovers Rather More Than Seamen.

Which Cheers The Sad, Revives The Old, Inspires The Young, Makes Weariness Forget His Toil, And Fear Her Danger; Opens A New World When This, The Present, Palls.

The Reason That Adulation Is Not Displeasing Is That, Though Untrue, It Shows One To Be Of Consequence Enough, In One Way Or Other, To Induce People To Lie.

But 'why Then Publish?' There Are No Rewards Of Fame Or Profit When The World Grows Weary. I Ask In Turn Why Do You Play At Cards? Why Drink? Why Read? To Make Some Hour Less Dreary. It Occupies Me To Turn Back Regards On What I've Seen Or Pondered, Sad Or Cheery, And What I Write I Cast Upon The Stream To Swim Or Sink. I Have Had At Least My Dream.

They Truly Mourn, That Mourn Without A Witness.

I Have Not Loved The World, Nor The World Me, But Let Us Part Fair Foes; I Do Believe, Though I Have Found Them Not, That There May Be Words Which Are Things, Hopes Which Will Not Deceive, And Virtues Which Are Merciful, Or Weave Snares For The Failing: I Would Also Deem O'er Others' Griefs That Some Sincerely Grieve; That Two, Or One, Are Almost What They Seem, That Goodness Is No Name, And Happiness No Dream.

And Life 's Enchanted Cup But Sparkles Near The Brim.

But I Hate Things All Fiction... There Should Always Be Some Foundation Of Fact For The Most Airy Fabric - And Pure Invention Is But The Talent Of A Liar.

Oh, Talk Not To Me Of A Name Great In Story; The Days Of Our Youth Are The Days Of Our Glory; And The Myrtle And Ivy Of Sweet Two-and-twenty Are Worth All Your Laurels, Though Ever So Plenty.

There Is Something Pagan In Me That I Cannot Shake Off. In Short, I Deny Nothing, But Doubt Everything.

In Hope To Merit Heaven By Making Earth A Hell.

What Deep Wounds Ever Closed Without A Scar?

Wounds And Scars

Fare Thee Well, And If For Ever Still For Ever Fare Thee Well.

The Best Prophet Of The Future Is The Past.

There Is A Tear For All Who Die, A Mourner O'er The Humblest Grave.

The Cold, The Changed, Perchance The Dead, Anew, The Mourn'd, The Loved, The Lost,-too Many, Yet How Few!

Sleep Hath Its Own World, And The Wide Realm Of Wild Reality.

And I Would Hear Yet Once Before I Perish The Voice Which Was My Music... Speak To Me!

A Thirst For Gold, The Beggar's Vice, Which Can But Overwhelm The Meanest Hearts.

Pure Friendship's Well-feigned Blush.

In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

War, War Is Still The Cry,-"war Even To The Knife!"

My Altars Are The Mountains And The Ocean.

O Ye! Who Teach The Ingenious Youth Of Nations, Holland, France, England, Germany Or Spain, I Pray Ye Flog Them Upon All Occasions, It Mends Their Morals, Never Mind The Pain.

Here's A Sigh To Those Who Love Me,and A Smile To Those Who Hate;and, Whatever Sky's Above Me,here's A Heart For Every Fate.

Cervantes Smiled Spain's Chivalry Away; A Single Laugh Demolish'd The Right Arm Of His Own Country.

Have Not All Past Human Beings Parted, And Must Not All The Present, One Day Part?

What Should I Have Known Or Written Had I Been A Quiet, Mercantile Politician Or A Lord In Waiting? A Man Must Travel, And Turmoil, Or There Is No Existence.

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

Letter Writing Is The Only Device Combining Solitude With Good Company.

Tis Said That Persons Living On Annuities Are Longer Lived Than Others.

Between Two Worlds Life Hovers Like A Star, Twixt Night And Morn, Upon The Horizon's Verge.

Kill A Man's Family, And He May Brook It, But Keep Your Hands Out Of His Breeches' Pocket.

Oh, For A Forty-parson Power To Chant Thy Praise, Hypocrisy! Oh, For A Hymn Loud As The Virtues Thou Dost Loudly Vaunt, Not Practise!

What Is Fame? The Advantage Of Being Known By People Of Whom You Yourself Know Nothing, And For Whom You Care As Little.

What Exile From Himself Can Flee? To Zones, Though More And More Remote, Still, Still Pursues, Where'er I Be, The Blight Of Life--the Demon Thought.

One Hates An Author That's All Author.

Admire, Exult, Despise, Laugh, Weep For Here There Is Such Matter For All Feelings: Man! Thou Pendulum Betwixt A Smile And Tear.

A Woman Should Never Be Seen Eating Or Drinking, Unless It Be Lobster Salad And Champagne, The Only True Feminine And Becoming Viands.

Of All The Horrid, Hideous Notes Of Woe, Sadder Than Owl-songs Or The Midnight Blast; Is That Portentous Phrase, "i Told You So.

Old Man! 'tis Not Difficult To Die.

Though Sages May Pour Out Their Wisdom's Treasure, There Is No Sterner Moralist Than Pleasure.

Brisk Confidence Still Best With Woman Copes: Pique Her And Soothe In Turn-soon Passion Crowns Thy Hopes.

Exhausting Thought, And Hiving Wisdom With Each Studious Year.

In General I Do Not Draw Well With Literary Men -- Not That I Dislike Them But I Never Know What To Say To Them After I Have Praised Their Last Publication.

None Are So Desolate But Something Dear, Dearer Than Self, Possesses Or Possess'd A Thought, And Claims The Homage Of A Tear.

The Image Of Eternity--the Throne Of The Invisible; Even From Out Thy Slime The Monsters Of The Deep Are Made; Each Zone Obeys Thee; Thou Goest Forth, Dread, Fathomless, Alone.

Nothing Can Confound A Wise Man More Than Laughter From A Dunce.

The Keenest Pangs The Wretched Find Are Rapture To The Dreary Void, The Leafless Desert Of The Mind, The Waste Of Feelings Unemployed.

Despair And Genius Are Too Oft Connected

Tis Strange,-but True; For Truth Is Always Strange; Stranger Than Fiction: If It Could Be Told, How Much Would Novels Gain By The Exchange! How Differently The World Would Men Behold!

'tis Sweet To Know There Is An Eye Will Mark Our Coming, And Look Brighter When We Come.

Yes, Love Indeed Is Light From Heaven; A Spark Of That Immortal Fire With Angels Shared, By Allah Given To Lift From Earth Our Low Desire.

It Is When We Think We Lead That We Are Most Led.

The Dome Of Thought, The Palace Of The Soul.

I Am No Platonist, I Am Nothing At All; But I Would Sooner Be A Paulician, Manichean, Spinozist, Gentile, Pyrrhonian, Zoroastrian, Than One Of The Seventy-two Villainous Sects Who Are Tearing Each Other To Pieces For The Love Of The Lord And Hatred Of Each Other.

I Have Great Hopes That We Shall Love Each Other All Our Lives As Much As If We Had Never Married At All.

I Speak Not Of Men's Creeds—they Rest Between Man And His Maker.

The Great Art Of Life Is Sensation, To Feel That We Exist, Even In Pain.

Armenian Is The Language To Speak With God.

My Hair Is Grey, But Not With Years, Nor Grew It White In A Single Night, As Men's Have Grown From Sudden Fears.

Think Not I Am What I Appear.

All Tragedies Are Finished By A Death, All Comedies Are Ended By A Marriage.

When Bishop Berkeley Said "there Was No Matter." And Proved It--'t Was No Matter What He Said.

How Sweet And Soothing Is This Hour Of Calm! I Thank Thee, Night! For Thou Has Chased Away These Horrid Bodements Which, Amidst The Throng, I Could Not Dissipate; And With The Blessing Of Thy Benign And Quiet Influence Now Will I To My Couch, Although To Rest Is Almost Wronging Such A Night As This.

A Sleep Without Dreams, After A Rough Day Of Toil, Is What We Covet Most; And Yet How Clay Shrinks Back From More Quiescent Clay! The Very Suicide That Pays His Debt At Once Without Installments (an Old Way Of Paying Debts, Which Creditors Regret) Lets Out Impatiently His Rushing Breath, Less From Disgust Of Life Than Dread Of Death.

Let No Man Grumble When His Friends Fall Off, As They Will Do Like Leaves At The First Breeze; When Your Affairs Come Round, One Way Or T'other, Go To The Coffee House, And Take Another.

Gone, Glimmering Through The Dream Of Things That Were.

Not To Admire, Is All The Art I Know To Make Men Happy, Or To Keep Them So. Thus Horace Wrote We All Know Long Ago; And Thus Pope Quotes The Precept To Re-teach From His Translation; But Had None Admired, Would Pope Have Sung, Or Horace Been Inspired?

He Was A Man Of His Times. With One Virtue And A Thousand Crimes. (the Corsair)

The Heart Will Break, But Broken Live On.

There's Not A Sea The Passenger E'er Pukes In, Turns Up More Dangerous Breakers Than The Euxine.

The Bright Sun Was Extinguish'd, And The Stars Did Wander Darkling In The Eternal Space.

Sighing That Nature Formed But One Such Man, And Broke The Die.

The Devil Was The First Democrat

I Am Acquainted With No Immaterial Sensuality So Delightful As Good Acting.

I Do Detest Everything Which Is Not Perfectly Mutual.

Mark! Where His Carnage And His Conquests Cease, He Makes A Solitude And Calls It-peace!

You Should Have A Softer Pillow Than My Heart.

Romances I Ne'er Read Like Those I Have Seen.

What Is Death, So It Be But Glorious? 'tis A Sunset; And Mortals May Be Happy To Resemble The Gods But In Decay.

Roll On, Thou Deep And Dark Blue Ocean

He Who Grown Aged In This World Of Woe, In Deeds, Not Years, Piercing The Depths Of Life, So That No Wonder Waits Him.

In Itself A Thought, A Slumbering Thought Is Capable Of Years; And Curdles A Long Life Into One Hour.

And Hold Up To The Sun My Little Taper.

For Through The South The Custom Still Commands The Gentleman To Kiss The Lady's Hands.

The Waves Were Dead; The Tides Were In Their Grave, The Moon, Their Mistress, Had Expir'd Before; The Winds Were Wither'd In The Stagnant Air, And The Clouds Perish'd; Darkness Had No Need Of Aid From Them-she Was The Universe.

To Withdraw Myself From Myself Has Ever Been My Sole, My Entire, My Sincere Motive In Scribbling At All.

The Premises Are So Delightfully Extensive, That Two People Might Live Together Without Ever Seeing, Hearing Or Meeting.

My Great Comfort Is, That The Temporary Celebrity I Have Wrung From The World Has Been In The Very Teeth Of All Opinions And Prejudices. I Have Flattered No Ruling Powers; I Have Never Concealed A Single Thought That Tempted Me.

Eternal Spirit Of The Chainless Mind! Brightest In Dungeons, Liberty! Thou Art, For There Thy Habitation Is The Heart-- The Heart Which Love Of Thee Alone Can Bind; And When Thy Sons To Fetters Are Consign'd-- To Fetters And Damp Vault's Dayless Gloom, Their Country Conquers With Their Martyrdom.

There Is No Traitor Like Him Whose Domestic Treason Plants The Poniard Within The Breast That Trusted To His Truth

Thy Decay's Still Impregnate With Divinity.

'tis Very Certain The Desire Of Life Prolongs It.

When People Say, "i've Told You Fifty Times," They Mean To Scold, And Very Often Do; When Poets Say, "i've Written Fifty Rhymes," They Make You Dread That They'll Recite Them Too; In Gangs Of Fifty, Thieves Commit Their Crimes; At Fifty Love For Love Is Rare, 't Is True, But Then, No Doubt, It Equally As True Is, A Good Deal May Be Bought For Fifty Louis.

A Rose With All Its Sweetest Leaves Yet Folded.

The Stars Are Forth, The Moon Above The Tops Of The Snow-shining Mountains--beautiful! I Linger Yet With Nature, For The Night Hath Been To Me A More Familiar Face Than That Of Man, And In Her Starry Shade Of Dim And Solitary Loveliness I Learned The Language Of Another World.

There Is No Instinct Like That Of The Heart.

I Only Know We Loved In Vain; I Only Feel-farewell! Farewell!

He Who Surpasses Or Subdues Mankind, Must Look Down On The Hate Of Those Below.

There's Music In The Sighing Of A Reed; There's Music In The Gushing Of A Rill; There's Music In All Things, If Men Had Ears; The Earth Is But The Music Of The Spheres.

As Falls The Dew On Quenchless Sands, Blood Only Serves To Wash Ambition's Hands.

We Of The Craft Are All Crazy.

Every Day Confirms My Opinion On The Superiority Of A Vicious Life, And If Virtue Is Not Its Own Reward, I Don't Know Any Other Stipend Annexed To It.

Do Proper Homage To Thine Idol's Eyes; But No Too Humbly, Or She Will Despise Thee And Thy Suit, Though Told In Moving Tropes: Disguise Even Tenderness If Thou Art Wise.

Critics Are Already Made.

It Has Been Said That The Immortality Of The Soul Is A Grand Peut-tre -but Still It Is A Grand One. Everybody Clings To It -the Stupidest, And Dullest, And Wickedest Of Human Bipeds Is Still Persuaded That He Is Immortal.

Ah, Happy Years! Once More Who Would Not Be A Boy?

The Heart Ran O'er With Silent Worship Of The Great Of Old!-- The Dead, But Sceptred Sovereigns, Who Still Rule Our Spirits From Their Urns.

But Every Fool Describes, In These Bright Days, His Wondrous Journey To Some Foreign Court, And Spawns His Quarto, And Demands Your Praise,-- Death To His Publisher, To Him 'tis Sport.

Be Warm, Be Pure, Be Amorous, But Be Chaste.

Yet Truth Will Sometimes Lend Her Noblest Fires, And Decorate The Verse Herself Inspires: This Fact, In Virtue's Name, Let Crabbe Attest,- Though Nature's Sternest Painter, Yet The Best.

Are We Aware Of Our Obligations To A Mob? It Is The Mob That Labor In Your Fields And Serve In Your Houses - That Man Your Navy, And Recruit Your Army - That Have Enabled You To Defy The World, And Can Also Defy You When Neglect And Calamity Have Driven Them To Despair. You May Call The People A Mob; But Do Not Forget That A Mob Too Often Speaks The Sentiments Of The People.

Cervantes Smiled Spain's Chivalry Away.

Good Work And Joyous Play Go Hand In Hand. When Play Stops, Old Age Begins. Play Keeps You From Taking Life Too Seriously.

What Is The End Of Fame? 'tis But To Fill A Certain Portion Of Uncertain Paper: Some Liken It To Climbing Up A Hill, Whose Summit, Like All Hills, Is Lost In Vapour: For This Men Write, Speak, Preach, And Heroes Kill, And Bards Burn What They Call Their "midnight Taper," To Have, When The Original Is Dust, A Name, A Wretched Picture, And Worse Bust.

A Pretty Woman Is A Welcome Guest.

Hatred Is The Madness Of The Heart.

When We Two Parted In Silence And Tears, Half Broken-hearted, To Sever For Years.

I See Before Me The Gladiator Lie.

I Stood In Venice, On The Bridge Of Sighs; A Palace And A Prison On Each Hand; I Saw From Out The Wave Of Her Structure's Rise As From The Stroke Of The Enchanter's Wand: A Thousand Years Their Cloudy Wings Expand Around Me, And A Dying Glory Smiles O'er The Far Times, When Many A Subject Land Look'd To The Winged Lion's Marble Pines, Where Venice Sate In State, Throned On Her Hundred Isles.

She Was Like Me In Lineaments-- Her Eyes Her Hair, Her Features, All, To The Very Tone Even Of Her Voice, They Said Were Like To Mine; But Soften'd All, And Temper'd Into Beauty; She Had The Same Lone Thoughts And Wanderings, The Quest Of Hidden Knowledge, And A Mind To Comprehend The Universe: Nor These Alone, But With Them Gentler Powers Than Mine, Pity, And Smiles, And Tears-- Which I Had Not; And Tenderness-- But That I Had For Her; Humility-- And That I Never Had. Her Faults Were Mine-- Her Virtues Were Her Own-- I Loved Her, And Destroy'd Her!

Yet I Did Love Thee To The Last, As Ferverently As Thou, Who Didst Not Change Through All The Past, And Canst Not Alter Now.

Fools Are My Theme, Let Satire Be My Song.

Such Is Your Cold Coquette, Who Can't Say "no," And Won't Say "yes," And Keeps You On And Off-ing On A Lee-shore, Till It Begins To Blow, Then Sees Your Heart Wreck'd, With An Inward Scoffing.

One Certainly Has A Soul; But How It Came To Allow Itself To Be Enclosed In A Body Is More Than I Can Imagine.

Man's Conscience Is The Oracle Of God.

'twas Strange That One So Young Should Thus Concern His Brain About The Action Of The Sky; If You Think 'twas Philosophy That This Did, I Can't Help Thinking Puberty Assisted.

I Am Not Now That Which I Have Been.

The Busy Have No Time For Tears.

I Cannot Help Thinking That The Menace Of Hell Makes As Many Devils As The Severe Penal Codes Of Inhuman Humanity Make Villains.

But As To Women, Who Can Penetrate The Real Sufferings Of Their She Condition? Man's Very Sympathy With Their Estate Has Much Of Selfishness And More Suspicion. Their Love, Their Virtue, Beauty, Education, But Form Good Housekeepers, To Breed A Nation.

I Have A Great Mind To Believe In Christianity For The Mere Pleasure Of Fancying I May Be Damned.

History - The Devil's Scripture

Tyranny Is For The Worst Of Treasons.

If A Man Proves Too Clearly And Convincingly To Himself...that A Tiger Is An Optical Illusion--well, He Will Find Out He Is Wrong. The Tiger Will Himself Intervene In The Discussion, In A Manner Which Will Be In Every Sense Conclusive.

Optical Illusions

Men Think Highly Of Those Who Rise Rapidly In The World; Whereas Nothing Rises Quicker Than Dust, Straw, And Feathers.

That Music In Itself, Whose Sounds Are Song, The Poetry Of Speech.

The Sky Is Changed,-and Such A Change! O Night And Storm And Darkness! Ye Are Wondrous Strong, Yet Lovely In Your Strength, As Is The Light Of A Dark Eye In Woman! Far Along, From Peak To Peak, The Rattling Crags Among, Leaps The Live Thunder.

And Doubt And Discord Step 'twixt Thine And Thee.

I Deny Nothing, But Doubt Everything.

The Place Is Very Well And Quiet And The Children Only Scream In A Low Voice.

And Gentle Winds And Waters Near, Make Music To The Lonely Ear.

A Change Came O'er The Spirit Of My Dream.

It Is Not For Minds Like Ours To Give Or To Receive Flatter; Yet The Praises Of Sincerity Have Ever Been Permitted To The Voice Of Friendship

Like The Measles, Love Is Most Dangerous When It Comes Late In Life.

I Know That Two And Two Make Four - And Should Be Glad To Prove It Too If I Could - Though I Must Say If By Any Sort Of Process I Could Convert 2 And 2 Into Five It Would Give Me Much Greater Pleasure.

No Ear Can Hear Nor Tongue Can Tell The Tortures Of The Inward Hell!

Physicians Mend Or End Us, Secundum Artem; But Although We Sneer - In Health - When Ill We Call Them To Attend Us, Without The Least Propensity To Jeer

When Newton Saw An Apple Fall, He Found In That Slight Startle From His Contemplation- 'tis Said (for I'll Not Answer Above Ground For Any Sage's Creed Or Calculation)- A Mode Of Proving That The Earth Turn'd Round In A Most Natural Whirl, Called 'gravitation'; And This Is The Sole Mortal Who Could Grapple, Since Adam, With A Fall, Or With An Apple.

Man Is A Carnivorous Production, And Must Have Meals, At Least One Meal A Day; He Cannot Live, Like Woodcocks, Upon Suction, But, Like The Shark And Tiger, Must Have Prey; Although His Anatomical Construction Bears Vegetables, In A Grumbling Way, Your Laboring People Think Beyond All Question, Beef, Veal, And Mutton Better For Digestion.

We Are All The Fools Of Time And Terror: Days Steal On Us And Steal From Us; Yet We Live, Loathing Our Life, And Dreading Still To Die.

My Native Land, Good Night!

A Quiet Conscience Makes One So Serene.

I Had A Dream, Which Was Not At All A Dream.

Switzerland Is A Curst, Selfish, Swinish Country Of Brutes, Placed In The Most Romantic Region Of The World.

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