Can Death Be Sleep, When Life Is

How Beautiful, If Sorrow Had Not Made Sorrow More Beautiful Than Beauty's Self.

If Poetry Does Not Come As Naturally As Leaves To A Tree, Then It Better Not Come At All.

'tis The Witching Hour Of Night, Orbed Is The Moon And Bright. And The Stars They Glisten, Glisten, Seeming With Bright Eyes To Listen- For What Listen They?

My Love Is Selfish. I Cannot Breathe Without You.

A Man's Life Of Any Worth Is A Continual Allegory, And Very Few Eyes Can See The Mystery Of His Life, A Life Like The Scriptures, Figurative.