An Undevout Poet Is An Impossibility.

Not The Poem Which We Have Read , But That To Which We Return , With The Greatest Pleasure, Possesses The Genuine Power, And Claims The Name Of Essential Poetry .

The Love Of A Mother Is The Veil Of A Softer Light Between The Heart And The Heavenly Father.

Of No Agenor Of Any Religion, Or Party Or Profession. The Body And Substance Of His Works Came Out Of The Unfathomable Depths Of His Own Oceanic Mind.

The Happiness Of Life Is Made Up Of Minute Fractions - The Little, Soon Forgotten Charities Of A Kiss Or A Smile, A Kind Look Or Heartfelt Compliment.

Men, I Still Think, Ought To Be Weighed Not Counted.