Let Us Open Our Leaves Like A

I Will Give You A Definition Of A Proud Man: He Is A Man Who Has Neither Vanity Nor Wisdom One Filled With Hatreds Cannot Be Vain, Neither Can He Be Wise.

The Roaring Of The Wind Is My Wife And The Stars Through The Window Pane Are My Children.

For Poesy Alone Can Tell Her Dreams, With The Fine Spell Of Words Alone Can Save Imagination From The Sable Charm And Dumb Enchantment. Who Alive Can Say, ‘thou Art No Poet May’st Not Tell Thy Dreams?’ Since Every Man Whose Soul Is Not A Clod Hath Visions, And Would Speak, If He Had Loved And Been Well Nurtured In His Mother Tongue. Whether The Dream Now Purpos’d To Rehearse Be Poet’s Or Fanatic’s Will Be Known When This Warm Scribe My Hand Is In The Grave.

Even Bees, The Little Almsmen Of Spring Bowers, Know There Is Richest Juice In Poison-flowers.

I Am Certain I Have Not A Right Feeling Towards Women -- At This Moment I Am Striving To Be Just To Them, But I Cannot. Is It Because They Fall So Far Beneath My Boyish Imagination? When I Was A Schoolboy I Thought A Fair Woman A Pure Goddess; My Mind Was A Soft Nest In Which Some One Of Them Slept, Though She Knew It Not.