In Youth All Doors Open Outward; In

What Seems To Us But Dim Funeral Tapers May Be Heaven's Distant Lamps.

Even The Blackest Of Them All, The Crow, Renders Good Service As Your Man-at-arms, Crushing The Beetle In His Coat Of Mail. And Crying Havoc On The Slug And Snail.

Thought Takes Man Out Of Servitude, Into Freedom.

The Picture That Approaches Sculpture Nearest Is The Best Picture.

Some Poems Are Like The Centaurs--a Mingling Of Man And Beast, And Begotten Of Ixion On A Cloud.