Blessed The Geniuses Who Know / That

What I Write Could Only Be Called Poetry Because There Is No Other Category To Put It.

If We Can't Be Cordial To These Creatures' Fleece, I Think That We Deserve To Freeze.

At All Events There Is In Brooklyn Something That Makes Me Feel At Home.

Sun And Moon And Day And Night And Man And Beast Each With A Splendor Which Man In All His Vileness Cannot Set Aside; Each With An Excellence!

Not Till The Poets Among Us Can Be "literalists Of The Imagination"-above Insolence And Triviality And Can Present For Inspection, "imaginary Gardens With Real Toads In Them." Shall We Have It.