There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
The Merchant, to Secure His Treasure The merchant, to secure his treasure, conveys it in a borrowed name: Euphemia serves to grace my measure, But Cloe is my real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre Upon Euphemia’s toilet lay – When Cloe noted her desire That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise, But with my numbers mix my sighs; And whilst I sing Euphemia’s praise, I fix my soul on Cloe’s eyes. Fair Cloe blushed; Euphemia frowned: I sung, and gazed; I played, and trembled: And Venus to the Loves Around Remarked how ill we all dissembled.
This maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.
And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams– In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams!
We loved with a love that was more than love.
And so being young and dipped in folly I fell in love with melancholy.
Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night.
Leave my loneliness unbroken
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Here I opened wide the door;— Darkness there, and nothing more.
Quota the Raven, “Nevermore.”
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore…
Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence– whether much that is glorious– whether all that is profound– does not spring from disease of thought– from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect.
Few persons can be made to believe that it is not quite an easy thing to invent a method of secret writing that shall baffle investigation. Yet it may be roundly asserted that human ingenuity cannot concoct a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve.
Grammar is the analysis of language.
If any ambitious man have a fancy to revolutionize, at one effort, the universal world of human thought, human opinion, and human sentiment, the opportunity is his own — the road to immortal renown lies straight, open, and unencumbered before him. All that he has to do is to write and publish a very little book. Its title should be simple — a few plain words — My Heart Laid Bare. But — this little book must be true to its title.
A short story must have a single mood and every sentence must build towards it.
I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.
Most writers – poets in especial – prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy – an ecstatic intuition – and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes.
To Helen Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicaean barks of yore That gently, o’er a perfumed sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome. Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand, Ah! Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land!