Grammar Is The Analysis Of Language.

No Murmur Arose From Its Bed, And So Gently It Wandered Along, That The Pearly Pebbles Upon Which We Loved To Gaze, Far Down Within Its Bosom, Stirred Not At All, But Lay In A Motionless Content, Each In Its Own Old Station, Shining On Gloriously Forever.

And So, Being Young And Dipt In Folly, I Fell In Love With Melancholy.

Words Have No Power To Impress The Mind Without The Exquisite Horror Of Their Reality.

I Was Never Really Insane Except Upon Occasions When My Heart Was Touched.

You Are Not Wrong Who Deem That My Days Have Been A Dream; Yet If Hope Has Flown Away In A Night, Or In A Day, In A Vision, Or In None, Is It Therefore The Less Gone? All That We See Or Seem Is But A Dream Within A Dream.