I Cannot Sit And Think; Books Think

Fly Not Yet; 't Is Just The Hour When Pleasure, Like The Midnight Flower That Scorns The Eye Of Vulgar Light, Begins To Bloom For Sons Of Night And Maids Who Love The Moon.

I Even Think That, Sentimentally, I Am Disposed To Harmony. But Organically I Am Incapable Of A Tune.

I Allow No Hot-beds In The Gardens Of Parnassus.

All People Have Their Blind Side-their Superstitions.

Riches Are Chiefly Good Because They Give Us Time.