Music's Golden Tongue Flatter'd To Tears This

No, No, I'm Sure, My Restless Spirit Never Could Endure To Brood So Long Upon One Luxury, Unless It Did, Though Fearfully, Espy A Hope Beyond The Shadow Of A Dream.

So Let Me Be Thy Choir, And Make A Moan Upon The Midnight Hours.

Nothing Ever Becomes Real Till It Is Experienced.

My Imagination Is A Monastery And I Am Its Monk.

Wine Is Only Sweet To Happy Men.