An Angel! Nonsense! Everybody So Describes His

Our Destiny Often Looks Like A Fruit-tree In Winter. Who Would Think From Its Pitiable Aspect That Those Rigid Boughs, Those Rough Twigs Could Next Spring Again Be Green, Bloom, And Even Bear Fruit? Yet We Hope It, We Know It.

To Be Pleased With One's Limits Is A Wretched State.

Action Has Magic, Grace And Power In It.

After All, Poets Shouldn't Be Their Own Interpreters And Shouldn't Carefully Dissect Their Poems Into Everyday Prose; That Would Mean The End Of Being Poets. Poets Send Their Creations Into The World, It Is Up To The Reader, The Aesthetician, And The Critic To Determine What They Wanted To Say With Their Creations.

Nature Does Not Suffer Her Veil To Be Taken From Her, And What She Does Not Choose To Reveal To The Spirit, Thou Wilt Not Wrest From Her By Levers And Screws.