Shallow Men Believe In Luck.

Love Not The Flower They Pluck And Know It Not, And All Their Botany Is Latin Names.

Nature Is No Spendthrift, But Takes The Shortest Way To Her Ends.

The Hand That Rounded Peter's Dome, And Groined The Aisles Of Christian Rome, Wrought In A Sad Sincerity; Himself From God He Could Not Free; He Builded Better Than He Knew: The Conscious Stone To Beauty Grew.

Moral Qualities Rule The World, But At Short Distances The Senses Are Despotic.

The Poet Needs A Ground In Popular Tradition On Which He May Work, And Which, Again, May Restrain His Art Within The Due Temperance. It Holds Him To The People, Supplies A Foundation For His Edifice; And, In Furnishing So Much Work Done To His Hand, Leaves Him At Leisure, And In Full Strength For The Audacities Of His Imagination.