The Loss Of A Much-prized Treasure Is

Gray Is The Color Of All Theory

I Had Toward The Poetic Art A Peculiar Relation Which Was Only Practical After I Had Cherished In My Mind For A Long Time A Subject Which Possessed Me, A Model Which Inspired Me, A Predecessor Who Attracted Me, Until At Length, After I Had Molded It

Night Is The Other Half Of Life, And The Better Half.

The Few Of Understanding, Vision Rare, Who Veiled Not From The Herd Their Hearts, But Tried, Poor Generous Fools, To Lay Their Feelings Bare, Them Have Men Always Burnt And Crucified.

Wood Burns Because It Has The Proper Stuff For That Purpose In It; And A Man Becomes Renowned Because He Has The Necessary Stuff In Him. Renown Is Not To Be Sought, And All Pursuit Of It Is Vain. A Person May, Indeed, By Skillful Conduct And Various Artificial Means, Make A Sort Of Name For Himself; But If The Inner Jewel Is Wanting, All Is Vanity, And Will Not Last A Day.