"These fellows, knowing the extravagant gullibility of the age, set their wits to work in the imagination of improbable possibilities — of odd accidents, as they term them; but to a reflecting intellect "to a contemplative understanding such as I myself possess, it seems evident at once that the marvelous increase of late in these 'odd accidents' is by far the oddest accident of all. For my own part, I intend to believe nothing henceforward that has anything of the 'singular' about it."

“And all my days are trances,And all my nightly dreamsAre where thy grey eye glances,And where thy footstep gleams — In what ethereal dances,By what eternal streams.”

“Thou wast that all to me, love, For which my soul did pine — A green isle in the sea, love,A fountain and a shrine,All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,And all the flowers were mine.”

“Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!I feel ye now — I feel ye in your strength.”

“Come! let the burial rite be read — the funeral song be sung! — An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young — A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.”

“If I could dwellWhere IsrafelHath dwelt, and he where I,He might not sing so wildly wellA mortal melody,While a bolder note than this might swellFrom my lyre within the sky.”

“Yes, Heaven is thine; but thisIs a world of sweets and sours;Our flowers are merely—flowers.”