Lord Help My Poor Soul.

Deep Into That Darkness Peering, Long I Stood There, Wondering, Fearing, Doubting, Dreaming Dreams No Mortal Ever Dared To Dream Before.

With Me Poetry Has Not Been A Purpose, But A Passion.

And Much Of Madness, And More Of Sin, And Horror The Soul Of The Plot.

All Suffering Originates From Craving, From Attachment, From Desire.

There Are Few Persons, Even Among The Calmest Thinkers, Who Have Not Occasionally Been Startled Into A Vague Yet Thrilling Half Credence In The Supernatural, By Coincidences Of So Seemingly Marvellous A Character That, As Mere Coincidences, The Intellect Has Been Unable To Receive Them.