What A Thing Of Fantasy A Woman

Thought Is A Key To All Treasures; The Miser's Gains Are Ours Without His Cares. Thus I Have Soared Above This World, Where My Enjoyments Have Been Intellectual Joys.

People Who Are In Love Suspect Nothing Or Everything.

Are Not Poets Men Who Fulfill Their Hopes Prematurely?

Vocations Which We Wanted To Pursue, But Didn't, Bleed, Like Colors, On The Whole Of Our Existence.

Death Unites As Well As Separates; It Silences All Paltry Feeling.