I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.
From childhood’s hour I have not been. As others were – I have not seen. As others saw – I could not bring. My passions from a common spring – from the same source I have not taken. My sorrow – I could not awaken. My heart to joy at the same tone – and all I lov’d – I lov’d alone.
Years of love have been forgot, in the fever of a minute.
We loved with a love that was more than love.
Thou wast that all to me, love, for which my soul did pine.
There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
Deep in earth my love is lying and I must weep alone.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love of those who were older than we – of many far wiser than we – and neither the angels in Heaven above nor the demons down under the sea can ever dissever my soul from the soul.
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