Faith Is To Believe What You Do

But Dying Is A Pleasure / When Living Is A Pain.

The Perverseness Of My Fate Is Such That He's Not Mine Because He's Mine Too Much.

An Horrible Stillness First Invades Our Ear, And In That Silence We The Tempest Fear.

Second Thoughts, They Say, Are Best.

When The Sun Sets, Shadows, That Shew'd At Noon But Small, Appear Most Long And Terrible; So, When We Think Fate Hovers O'er Our Heads, Our Apprehensions Shoot Beyond All Bounds, Owls, Ravens, Crickets Seem The Watch Of Death, Nature's Worst Vermine Scare Her God-like Sons. Ecchoes The Very Leavings Of A Voice, Grow Babling Ghosts, And Call Us To Our Graves: Each Mole-hill Thought Swells To A Huge Olympus, While We Fantastick Dreamers Heave And Puff, And Sweat With An Imagination's Weight.