Let Us Love Winter, For It Is

Poetry Is A Whim Of Nature In Her Lighter Moods; It Requires Nothing But Its Own Madness And, Lacking That, It Becomes A Soundless Cymbal, A Belfry Without A Bell.

Perfumed And Gallant Words Make Our Ears Belch.

The Best Thing For A Man To Do Is To Be Born And, Being Born, To Die At Once.

Love Doesn't Hide. It Stays And Fights. It Goes The Distance, That's Why Love Is So Strong. So It Can Carry You All The Way Home.

He Who Has Not Been At A Tavern Knows Not What A Paradise It Is. O Holy Tavern! O Miraculous Tavern! - Holy, Because No Carking Cares Are There, Nor Weariness, Nor Pain; And Miraculous, Because Of The Spits, Which Themselves Turn Round And Round!