It Is The Wretchedness Of Being Rich

Married Women Are Kept Women, And Theyare Beginning To Find It Out.

How Often My Soul Visits The National Gallery, And How Seldom

Those Who Talk On The Razor-edge Of Double-meanings Pluck The Rarest Blooms From The Precipice On Either Side.

We Should Nourish Our Souls On The Dew Of Poesy, And Manure Them As Well.

What Things There Are To Write, If One Could Only Write Them! My Mind Is Full Of Gleaming Thought; Gay Moods And Mysterious, Moth-like Meditations Hover In My Imagination, Fanning Their Painted Wings. But Always The Rarest, Those Streaked With Azure And The Deepest Crimson, Flutter Away Beyond My Reach.