None But The Brave And Beautiful Can

Leave The Poor Some Time For Self-improvement. Let Them Not Be Forced To Grind The Bones Out Of Their Arms For Bread, But Have Some Space To Think And Feel Like Moral And Immortal Creatures.

A Poet Not In Love Is Out At Sea; He Must Have A Lay-figure.

I Run The Gauntlet Of A File Of Doubts, Each One Of Which Down Hurls Me To The Ground.

True Faith Nor Biddeth Nor Abideth Form, The Bended Knee, The Eye Uplift; Is All Which Men Need Render; All Which God Can Bear. What To The Faith Are Forms? A Passing Speck, A Crow Upon The Sky.

We Must Not Pluck Death From The Maker's Hand.