I Came To Feel How Far Above

She Hurried At His Words, Beset With Fears, For There Were Sleeping Dragons All Around.

I Should Write For The Mere Yearning And Fondness I Have For The Beautiful, Even If My Night's Labors Should Be Burnt Every Morning And No Eye Shine Upon Them.

The Genius Of Poetry Must Work Out Its Own Salvation In A Man; It Cannot Be Matured By Law And Precept, But By Sensation And Watchfulness In Itself. That Which Is Creative Must Create Itself.

The Excellence Of Every Art Is Its Intensity.

It Keeps Eternal Whisperings Around Desolate Shores