I Wish To Believe In Immortality-i Wish

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

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.

Young Playmates Of The Rose And Daffodil, Be Careful Ere Ye Enter In, To Fill Your Baskets High With Fennel Green, And Balm, And Golden Pines Savory Latter-mint, And Columbines.

Through The Dancing Poppies Stole A Breeze, Most Softly Lulling To My Soul.

And How They Kist Each Other's Tremulous Eyes.