Poetry Heals The Wounds Inflicted By Reason.

We Never Completely Comprehend Ourselves, But We Can Do Far More Than Comprehend.

In A Work Of Art, Chaos Must Shimmer Through The Veil Of Order.

The Mysterious Path Goes Inward. It Is In Us, And Not Anywhere Else, Where The Eternity Of The Worlds, The Past And The Future Are Found.

Friendship, Love, And Piety Ought To Be Handled With A Sort Of Mysterious Secrecy; They Ought To Be Spoken Of Only In The Rare Moments Of Perfect Confidence, To Be Mutually Understood In Silence. Many Things Are Too Delicate To Be Thought; Many More, To Be Spoken.

We Are Near Waking When We Dream We Are Dreaming.