It Is Among Men Of Genius And

A Poet Is A Nightingale, Who Sits In Darkness And Sings To Cheer Its Own Solitude With Sweet Sounds.

When A Man Marries, Dies, Or Turns Hindu, His Best Friends Hear No More Of Him.

I Cannot Endure The Horror, The Evil, Which Comes To Self In Solitude.

The Awful Shadow Of Some Unseen Power Floats Though Unseen Among Us; Visiting This Various World With As Inconstant Wing As Summer Winds That Creep From Flower To Flower; Like Moonbeams That Behind Some Piny Mountain Shower, It Visits With Inconstant Glance Each Human Heart And Countenance; Like Hues And Harmonies Of Evening, Like Clouds In Starlight Widely Spread, Like Memory Of Music Fled, Like Aught That For Its Grace May Be Dear, And Yet Dearer For Its Mystery.

Poetry Is The Record Of The Best And Happiest Moments Of The Happiest And Best Minds.