Virginity Is The Poetry, Not

Sentiment Is The Poetry Of The Imagination.

Radicalism Is But The Desperation Of Logic.

It Is Admirable To Die The Victim Of One's Faith; It Is Sad To Die The Dupe Of One's Ambition.

There Are Places And Climates, Seasons And Hours, With Their Outward Circumstance, So Much In Harmony With Certain Impressions Of The Heart, That Nature And The Soul Of Man Appear To Be Parts Of One Vast Whole.

Ink Is The Transcript Of Thought.