O For The Gentleness Of Old Romance,

When The Melancholy Fit Shall Fall Sudden From Heaven Like A Weeping Cloud, That Fosters The Droop-headed Flowers All, And Hides The Green Hill In An April Shroud; Then Glut Thy Sorrow On A Morning Rose.

Conversation Is Not A Search After Knowledge, But An Endeavor At Effect.

The Genius Of Poetry Must Work Out Its Own Salvation In A Man; It Cannot Be Matured By Law And Precept, But By Sensation And Watchfulness In Itself. That Which Is Creative Must Create Itself.

Let Us Open Our Leaves Like A Flower, And Be Passive And Receptive.

I Have Good Reason To Be Content, For Thank God I Can Read And Perhaps Understand Shakespeare To His Depths.