The Intimate Revelations Of Young Men, Or

I'm In A Muddle About A Lot Of Things -- I've Just Discovered That I've A Mind, And I'm Starting To Read" "read What?" "everything. I Have To Pick And Choose, Of Course, But Mostly Things That Make Me Think.

There Is A Moment—oh, Just Before The First Kiss, A Whispered Word—something That Makes It Worth While.

I Am Not A Great Man, But Sometimes I Think The Impersonal And Objective Equality Of My Talent And The Sacrifices Of It, In Pieces, To Preserve Its Essential Value Has Some Sort Of Epic Grandeur.

For Awhile After You Quit Keats All Other Poetry Seems To Be Only Whistling Or Humming.

He Had Waited Five Years And Bought A Mansion Where He Dispensed Starlight To Casual Moths - So That He Could 'come Over' Some Afternoon To A Stranger's Garden.