“Ah, are you digging on my grave,My loved one? -- planting rue?"-- "No: yesterday he went to wedOne of the brightest wealth has bred.'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,'That I should not be true.'""Then who is digging on my grave,My nearest dearest kin?"-- "Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use!What good will planting flowers produce?No tendance of her mound can looseHer spirit from Death's gin.'""But someone digs upon my grave?My enemy? -- prodding sly?"-- "Nay: when she heard you had passed the GateThat shuts on all flesh soon or late,She thought you no more worth her hate,And cares not where you lie."Then, who is digging on my grave?Say -- since I have not guessed!"-- "O it is I, my mistress dear,Your little dog, who still lives near,And much I hope my movements hereHave not disturbed your rest?""Ah yes! You dig upon my grave...Why flashed it not to meThat one true heart was left behind!What feeling do we ever findTo equal among human kindA dog's fidelity!""Mistress, I dug upon your graveTo bury a bone, in caseI should be hungry near this spotWhen passing on my daily trot.I am sorry, but I quite forgotIt was your resting place.”

“My work was done, so it was time to start digging my grave again.”

“Do you think I am an automaton? — a machine without feelings? and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! — I have as much soul as you — and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh: it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God's feet, equal — as we are!”

“What nearly everybody in my life had misunderstood about Satanism was that it is not about ritual sacrifices, digging up graves and worshipping the devil. The devil doesn't exist. Satanism is about worshipping yourself, because you are responsible for your own good and evil.”

“She used to place her pretty arms about my neck, draw me to her, and laying her cheek to mine, murmur with her lips near my ear, “Dearest, your little heart is wounded; think me not cruel because I obey the irresistible law of my strength and weakness; if your dear heart is wounded, my wild heart bleeds with yours. In the rapture of my enormous humiliation I live in your warm life, and you shall die—die, sweetly die—into mine. I cannot help it; as I draw near to you, you, in your turn, will draw near to others, and learn the rapture of that cruelty, which yet is love; so, for a while, seek to know no more of me and mine, but trust me with all your loving spirit.”And when she had spoken such a rhapsody, she would press me more closely in her trembling embrace, and her lips in soft kisses gently glow upon my cheek.”

“My only answer is, if my grave stood open on one side and you upon the other I'd go into my grave before I would take one step to meet you.”