Most People Would Succeed In Small Things

If The Mind, That Rules The Body, Ever So Far Forgets Itself As To Trample On Its Slave, The Slave Is Never Generous Enough To Forgive The Injury, But Will Rise And Smite The Oppressor.

The Tragic Element In Poetry Is Like Saturn In Alchemy, — The Malevolent, The Destroyer Of Nature ; But Without It No True Aurum Potabile, Or Elixir Of Life, Can Be Made.

If Spring Came But Once A Century Instead Of Once A Year, Or Burst Forth With The Sound Of An Earthquake And Not In Silence, What Wonder And Expectation There Would Be In All The Hearts To Behold The Miraculous Change.

There Is A Reaper, Whose Name Is Death, And, With His Sickle Keen, He Reaps The Bearded Grain At A Breath, And The Flowers That Grow Between.

Every Human Heart Is Human.