The Mind Is An Enchanting Thing.

We Are What We Were At Birth, And Each Trait Has Remained In Conformity With Earth's And With Heaven's Logic: Be The Devil's Tool, Resort To Black Magic, None Can Diverge From The Ends Which Heaven Foreordained.

What I Write Could Only Be Called Poetry Because There Is No Other Category To Put It.

As For Butterflies, I Can Hardly Conceive Of One's Attending Upon You; But To Question The Congruence Of The Complement Is Vain, If It Exists.

When One Is Frank, One's Very Presence Is A Compliment.

O To Be A Dragon, A Symbol Of The Power Of Heaven-of Silk-worm Size Or Immense; At Times Invisible. Felicitous Phenomenon!