There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods.

In General I Do Not Draw Well With Literary Men -- Not That I Dislike Them But I Never Know What To Say To Them After I Have Praised Their Last Publication.

They Never Fail Who Die In A Great Cause.

Poetry Should Only Occupy The Idle.

Curiosity Kills Itself; And Love Is Only Curiosity, As Is Proved By Its End.

Sorrow Preys Upon Its Solitude, And Nothing More Diverts It From Its Sad Visions Of The Other World Than Calling It At Moments Back To This. The Busy Have No Time For Tears.