The Flame Of Anger, Bright And Brief,

That Which Moveth The Heart Most Is The Best Poetry; It Comes Nearest Unto God, The Source Of All Power.

My Thoughts Are My Company; I Can Bring Them Together, Select Them, Detain Them, Dismiss Them.

Every Witticism Is An Inexact Thought; That Which Is Perfectly True Is Imperfectly Witty.

Fancy Is Imagination In Her Youth And Adolescence. Fancy Is Always Excursive; Imagination, Not Seldom, Is Sedate.

Was Genius Ever Ungrateful? Mere Talents Are Dry Leaves, Tossed Up And Down By Gusts Of Passion, And Scattered And Swept Away; But, Genius Lies On The Bosom Of Memory, And Gratitude At Her Feet.