The Heart Is Its Own Fate.

When Pride Thaws, Look For Floods.

The Sun, Centre And Sire Of Light, The Keystone Of The World-built Arch Of Heaven.

Burn To Be Great, Pay Not Thy Praise To Lofty Things Alone. The Plains Are Everlasting As The Hills, The Bard Cannot Have Two Pursuits; Aught Else Comes On The Mind With The Like Shock As Though Two Worlds Had Gone To War, And Met In Air.

Death, Thou Art Infinite; It Is Life Is Little.

Poetry Is Itself A Thing Of God; He Made His Prophets Poets; And The More We Feel Of Poesie Do We Become Like God In Love And Power,-under-makers.