And How Am I To Face The

They Put Arsenic In His Meat And Stared Aghast To Watch Him Eat; They Poured Strychnine In His Cup And Shook To See Him Drink It Up.

A Moment's Thought Would Have Shown Him. But A Moment Is A Long Time, And Thought Is A Painful Process.

Nature, Not Content With Denying Him The Ability To Think, Has Endowed Him With The Ability To Write.

Now, Of My Threescore Years And Ten, Twenty Will Not Come Again.

Poems Very Seldom Consist Of Poetry And Nothing Else; And Pleasure Can Be Derived Also From Their Other Ingredients. I Am Convinced That Most Readers, When They Think They Are Admiring Poetry, Are Deceived By Inability To Analyse Their Sensations, And That They Are Really Admiring, Not The Poetry Of The Passage Before Them, But Something Else In It, Which They Like Better Than Poetry.