The Poet Should Seize The Particular, And

The Brilliant Passes, Like The Dew At Morn; The True Endures, For Ages Yet Unborn.

Sometimes Our Fate Resembles A Fruit Tree In Winter. Who Would Think That Those Branches Would Turn Green Again And Blossom, But We Hope It, We Know It.

If The Whole World I Once Could See On Free Soil Stand, With The People Free Then To The Moment Might I Say, Linger Awhile. . .so Fair Thou Art.

Nature Reacts Not Only To Physical Disease, But Also To Moral Weakness; When The Danger Increases; She Gives Us Greater Courage

What Makes Poetry? A Full Heart, Brimful Of One Noble Passion.