A Distracted Existence Leads Us To No

With Little Art, Clear Wit And Sense Suggest Their Own Delivery.

The Few Of Understanding, Vision Rare, Who Veiled Not From The Herd Their Hearts, But Tried, Poor Generous Fools, To Lay Their Feelings Bare, Them Have Men Always Burnt And Crucified.

I Had Toward The Poetic Art A Peculiar Relation Which Was Only Practical After I Had Cherished In My Mind For A Long Time A Subject Which Possessed Me, A Model Which Inspired Me, A Predecessor Who Attracted Me, Until At Length, After I Had Molded It

The Force Of A Language Does Not Consist Of Rejecting What Is Foreign But Of Swallowing It.

The Greatest Joy Of A Thinking Man Is To Have Searched The Explored And To Quietly Revere The Unexplored.