Her Skin Was White As Leprosy.

Poetry, Even That Of The Loftiest, And Seemingly, That Of The Wildest Odes, [has] A Logic Of Its Own As Severe As That Of Science; And More Difficult, Because More Subtle, More Complex, And Dependent On More And More Fugitive Causes. In The Truly Great Poets... There Is A Reason Assignable, Not Only For Every Word, But For The Position Of Every Word.

How Like Herrings And Onions Our Vices Are In The Morning After We Have Committed Them.

We Ought Not To Extract Pernicious Honey From Poison Blossoms Of Misrepresentation And Mendacious Half-truth, To Pamper The Course Appetite Of Bigotry And Self-love.

A Wild Rose Roofs The Ruined Shed, And That And Summer Well Agree.

The Man Hath Penance Done, And Penance More Will Do.