No Coward Soul Is Mine, No Trembler

Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of, His And Mine Are The Same; And Linton's Is As Different As A Moonbeam From Lightning, Or Frost From Fire

He Wanted All To Lie In An Ecstasy Of Peace; I Wanted All To Sparkle And Dance In A Glorious Jubilee. I Said His Heaven Would Be Only Half Alive; And He Said Mine Would Be Drunk: I Said I Should Fall Asleep In His; And He Said He Could Not Breathe In Mine.

Worthless As Wither'd Weeds.

He Turned, As He Spoke, A Peculiar Look In Her Direction, A Look Of Hatred Unless He Has A Most Perverse Set Of Facial Muscles That Will Not, Like Those Of Other People, Interpret The Language Of His Soul.

And, Even Yet, I Dare Not Let It Languish, Dare Not Indulge In Memory's Rapturous Pain; Once Drinking Deep Of That Divinest Anguish, How Could I Seek The Empty World Again?