Though A Quarrel In The Streets Is

Where The Nightingale Doth Sing Not A Senseless, Tranced Thing, But Divine Melodious Truth.

If Poetry Does Not Come As Naturally As Leaves To A Tree, Then It Better Not Come At All.

He, Who Is Gone, Was One Of The Very Kindest Friends I Possessed, And Yet He Was Not Kinder Perhaps To Me, Than To Others. His Intense Mind And Powerful Feelings Would, I Truly Believe, Have Done The World Some Service, Had His Life Been Spared But He Was Of Too Sensitive A Nature And Thus He Was Destroyed!

There Was An Awful Rainbow Once In Heaven: We Know Her Woof, Her Texture; She Is Given In The Dull Catalogue Of Common Things. Philosophy Will Clip An Angel's Wings.

Beauty Is Truth, Truth Beauty