I Am Never Long, Even In The

For Truth Is Always Strange; Stranger Than Fiction.

Oh That The Desert Were My Dwelling-place, With One Fair Spirit For My Minister

What Men Call Gallantry, And Gods Adultery, Is Much More Common Where The Climate's Sultry.

Time Strips Our Illusions Of Their Hue, And One By One In Turn, Some Grand Mistake Casts Off Its Bright Skin Yearly Like The Snake.

Where Are The Forms The Sculptor's Soul Hath Seized? In Him Alone, Can Nature Show As Fair?