I Find No Abhorring In My Appetite.

Poetry Is A Counterfeit Creation, And Makes Things That Are Not, As Though They Were

The Psalms Foretell What I, What Any Shall Do And Suffer And Say.

I Long To Talk With Some Old Lover's Ghost, Who Died Before The God Of Love Was Born.

That Which Attempts To Elevate The Ugly To The Level Of Beauty Becomes Neither; But An Obscenity.

Our Faults Are Not Seen, But Past Us; Neither Felt, But Only In The Punishment.