I Should Write For The Mere Yearning

Where Soil Is, Men Grow, Whether To Weeds Or Flowers.

I Must Choose Between Despair And Energy──i Choose The Latter.

A Thing Of Beauty Is A Joy Forever.

I Have So Much Of You In My Heart.

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.