The Nightmare Life-in-death Was She.

Poetry, Even That Of The Loftiest, And Seemingly, That Of The Wildest Odes, [has] A Logic Of Its Own As Severe As That Of Science; And More Difficult, Because More Subtle, More Complex, And Dependent On More And More Fugitive Causes. In The Truly Great Poets... There Is A Reason Assignable, Not Only For Every Word, But For The Position Of Every Word.

Ah! From The Soul Itself Must Issue Forth A Light, A Glory, A Fair Luminous Cloud Enveloping The Earth.

Nature Is A Wary Wily Long-breathed Old Witch, Tough-lived As A Turtle And Divisible As The Polyp, Repullulative In A Thousand Snips And Cuttings, Integra Et In Toto! She Is Sure To Get The Better Of Lady Mind In The Long Run, And To Take Her Revenge Too Transforms Our To Day Into A Canvass Dead-colored To Receive The Dull Featureless Portait Of Yesterday.

About, About, In Reel And Rout The Death Fires Danced At Night.

And To Be Wroth With One We Love…doth Work Like Madness In The Brain.