Behold great Whitman, whose licentious line Delights the rake, and warms the souls of swine; Whose fever'd fancy shuns the measur'd pace, And copies Ovid's filth without his grace. In his rough brain a genius might have grown, Had he not sought to play the brute alone; But void of shame, he let his wit run wild, And liv'd and wrote as Adam's bestial child.
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Do not call up any that you can not put down.
Never Explain Anything
Our brains deliberately make us forget things, to prevent insanity
That is not dead which can eternal lie, And with strange aeons even death may die.
If we were sensible we would seek death - the same blissful blank which we enjoyed before we existed.
No new horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace.
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