All Poetry Is Putting The Infinite Within

A Face To Lose Youth For, To Occupy Age With The Dream Of, Meet Death With.

Measure Your Mind's Height By The Shade It Casts.

We Mortals Cross The Ocean Of This World Each In His Average Cabin Of A Life; The Bests Not Big, The Worst Yields Elbowroom.

I Know What I Want And What I Might Gain, And Yet, How Profitless To Know.

A People Is But The Attempt Of Many To Rise To The Completer Life Of One; And Those Who Live As Models For The Mass Are Singly Of More Value Than They All.