Come and see my rose-coloured bath full of death!

Strange is the night where black stars rise, And strange moons circle through the skies, But stranger still is Lost . ...Song of my soul, my voice is dead, Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed Shall dry and die in

The ambition of Caesar and of Napoleon pales before that which could not rest until it had seized the minds of men and controlled even their unborn thoughts.

I pray God will curse the writer, as the writer has cursed the world with its beautiful stupendous creation, terrible in its simplicity, irresistible in its truth—a world which now trembles before the King In Yellow.

To come is easy and takes hours; to go is different—and may take centuries.

But see! the pains begin to fly; Tho’ Venus bled she could not die: See the new phœnix point her eyes, And lovelier from her ashes rise.

Brighter from her disease she shines, As fire the precious gold refines. Thus when the silent grave becomes Pregnant with life as fruitful wombs; When the wide seas and spacious earth Resign us to our second birth;