Oft A Little Morning Rain Foretells A

I'm Just Going To Write Because I Cannot Help It.

Her Coming Was My Hope Each Day, Her Parting Was My Pain; The Chance That Did Her Steps Delay Was Ice In Every Vein.

I Feel Monotony And Death To Be Almost The Same.

Conventionality Is Not Morality.

No Mockery In This World Ever Sounds To Me So Hollow As That Of Being Told To Cultivate Happiness. What Does Such Advice Mean? Happiness Is Not A Potato, To Be Planted In Mould, And Tilled With Manure.