Poetry Is Talking On Tiptoe.

Lovely Are The Curves Of The White Owl Sweeping Wavy In The Dusk Lit By One Large Star. Lone On The Fir-branch, His Rattle-note Unvaried, Brooding O'er The Gloom, Spins The Brown Eve-jar.

Always Imitate The Behaviour Of The Winners When You Lose.

We Never Know What's In Us Till We Stand By Ourselves.

Swift Doth Young Love Flee, And We Stand Wakened, Shivering From Our Dream.

The Season Of Love Is The Carnival Of Egoism And It Brings A Touchstone To Our Natures.