This Strange Disease Of Modern Life, With

Nor Bring, To See Me Cease To Live, Some Doctor Full Of Phrase And Fame, To Shake His Sapient Head, And Give The Ill He Cannot Cure A Name.

The Best Poetry Will Be Found To Have A Power Of Forming, Sustaining, And Delighting Us, As Nothing Else Can.

Unquiet Souls. In The Dark Fermentation Of Earth, In The Never Idle Workshop Of Nature, In The Eternal Movement, Yea Shall Find Yourselves Again.

Not A Having And A Resting, But A Growing And A Becoming, Is The Character Of Perfection As Culture Conceives It.

No, No! The Energy Of Life May Be Kept On After The Grave, But Not Begun; And He Who Flagg'd Not In The Earthly Strife, From Strength To Strength Advancing--only He His Soul Well-knit, And All His Battles Won, Mounts, And That Hardly, To Eternal Life.