Intelligence And Courtesy Not Always Are Combined;

The Tragic Element In Poetry Is Like Saturn In Alchemy, — The Malevolent, The Destroyer Of Nature ; But Without It No True Aurum Potabile, Or Elixir Of Life, Can Be Made.

Very Hot And Still The Air Was, Very Smooth The Gliding River, Motionless The Sleeping Shadows.

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.

The Day Is Dark And Cold And Dreary; It Rains, And The Wind Is Never Weary.

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