You Are Always New To Me.

I Do Think Better Of Womankind Than To Suppose They Care Whether Mister John Keats Five Feet High Likes Them Or Not.

I Am Sailing With Thee Through The Dizzy Sky! How Beautiful Thou Art!

I See A Lily On Thy Brow, With Anguish Moist And Fever Dew; And On Thy Cheek A Fading Rose Fast Withereth Too.

Neither Poetry, Nor Ambition, Nor Love Have Any Alertness Of Countenance As They Pass By Me.

We Read Fine Things But Never Feel Them To The Full Until We Have Gone The Same Steps As The Author.