O The Anguish Of The

In High Vengeance There Is Noble Scorn.

Let Thy Chief Terror Be Of Thine Own Soul: There, 'mid The Throng Of Hurrying Desires That Trample O'er The Dead To Seize Their Spoil, Lurks Vengeance, Footless, Irresistible As Exhaltations Laden With Slow Death, And O'er The Fairest Troop Of Captured Joys Breathes Pallid Pestilence.

It Always Seemed To Me A Sort Of Clever Stupidity Only To Have One Sort Of Talent - Like A Carrier Pigeon.

To Know Intense Joy Without A Strong Bodily Frame, One Must Have An Enthusiastic Soul.

The Scornful Nostril And The High Head Gather Not The Odors That Lie On The Track Of Truth.