You Smell A Rose Through A Fence:

How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count The Ways.

Many A Fervid Man Writes Books As Cold And Flat As Graveyard Stones.

Whatever's Lost, It First Was Won.

Books Succeed; And Lives Fail.

There's Nothing Great Nor Small, Has Said A Poet Of Our Day, Whose Voice Will Ring Beyond The Curfew Of Eve And Not Be Thrown Out By The Matin's Bell.