Even When I'm Railed At, I Get

Anger Represents A Certain Power, When A Great Mind, Prevented From Executing Its Own Generous Desires, Is Moved By It.

Let Us Love Winter, For It Is The Spring Of Genius.

Poetry Is A Whim Of Nature In Her Lighter Moods; It Requires Nothing But Its Own Madness And, Lacking That, It Becomes A Soundless Cymbal, A Belfry Without A Bell.

Perfumed And Gallant Words Make Our Ears Belch.

He Who Has Not Been At A Tavern Knows Not What A Paradise It Is. O Holy Tavern! O Miraculous Tavern! - Holy, Because No Carking Cares Are There, Nor Weariness, Nor Pain; And Miraculous, Because Of The Spits, Which Themselves Turn Round And Round!