A Man's Life Of Any Worth Is

The Poetry Of The Earth Is Never Dead.

My Passions Are All Asleep From My Having Slumbered Till Nearly Eleven And Weakened The Animal Fiber All Over Me To A Delightful Sensation About Three Degrees On This Sight Of Faintness - If I Had Teeth Of Pearl And The Breath Of Lilies I Should Call It Languor - But As I Am I Must Call It Laziness. In This State Of Effeminacy The Fibers Of The Brain Are Relaxed In Common With The Rest Of The Body, And To Such A Happy Degree That Pleasure Has No Show Of Enticement And Pain No Unbearable Frown. Neither Poetry, Nor Ambition, Nor Love Have Any Alertness Of Countenance As They Pass By Me.

If Something Is Not Beautiful, It Is Probably Not True.

A Little Noiseless Noise Among The Leaves, Born Of The Very Sigh That Silence Heaves.

She Hurried At His Words, Beset With Fears, For There Were Sleeping Dragons All Around.