Failure Is, In A Sense, The Highway

Love Is My Religion - I Could Die For It.

My Spirit Is Too Weak--mortality Weighs Heavily On Me Like Unwilling Sleep, And Each Imagin'd Pinnacle And Steep Of Godlike Hardship Tells Me I Must Die Like A Sick Eagle Looking At The Sky.

Though A Quarrel In The Streets Is A Thing To Be Hated, The Energies Displayed In It Are Fine; The Commonest Man Shows A Grace In His Quarrel.

The Thought, The Deadly Thought Of Solitude.

A Thing Of Beauty Is A Joy For Ever: Its Loveliness Increases; It Will Never Pass Into Nothingness; But Still Will Keep A Bower Quiet For Us, And A Sleep Full Of Sweet Dreams, And Health, And Quiet Breathing.