Poetry, That Is To Say The Poetic,

If We Can't Be Cordial To These Creatures' Fleece, I Think That We Deserve To Freeze.

Writing Is An Undertaking For The Modest.

As For Butterflies, I Can Hardly Conceive Of One's Attending Upon You; But To Question The Congruence Of The Complement Is Vain, If It Exists.

Poetry ... ... A Place For The Genuine, Hands That Can Grasp, Eyes That Can Dilate, Hair That Can Rise

... We Do Not Admire What We Cannot Understand.