Love's Very Pain Is Sweet

Thy Words Are Like A Cloud Of Winged Snakes.

It Is Only By Softening And Disguising Dead Flesh By Culinary Preparation That It Is Rendered Susceptible Of Mastication Or Digestion, And That The Sight Of Its Bloody Juices And Raw Horror Does Not Excite Intolerable Loathing And Disgust.

Poets Are The Hierophants Of An Unapprehended Inspiration; The Mirrors Of The Gigantic Shadows Which Futurity Casts Upon The Present.

I Pant, I Sink, I Tremble, I Expire!

Power, Like A Desolating Pestilence, Pollutes Whatever It Touches.