A Poet Not In Love Is Out

The Sun, Centre And Sire Of Light, The Keystone Of The World-built Arch Of Heaven.

Night Brings Out Stars As Sorrow Shows Us Truths.

For As Nightingales Do Upon Glow-worms Feed, So Poets Live Upon The Living Light.

We Live Not To Ourselves, Our Work Is Life.

It Is No Great Misfortune To Oblige Ungrateful People, But An Unsupportable One To Be Forced To Be Under An Obligation To A Scoundrel.