It Kills Me To Be Time's Eunuch

Beauty Is A Relation, And The Apprehension Of It A Comparison.

And The Headbonny Ash That Sits Over The Burn. What Would The World Be, Once Bereft Of Wet And Of Wildness? Let Them Be Left, O Let Them Be Left, Wildness And Wet: Long Live The Weeds And The Wilderness Yet.

By The By, If The English Race Had Done Nothing Else, Yet If They Left The World The Notion Of A Gentleman, They Would Have Done A Great Service To Mankind.

I Hold With The Old-fashioned Criticism That Browning Is Not Really A Poet, That He Has All The Gifts But The One Needful And The Pearls Without The String; Rather One Should Say Raw Nuggets And Rough Diamonds.

All Things Therefore Are Charged With Love, Are Charged With God And If We Knew How To Touch Them Give Off Sparks And Take Fire, Yield Drops And Flow, Ring And Tell Of Him.