Poetry Gives Most Pleasure When Only Generally

Real Pain Can Alone Cure Us Of Imaginary Ills. We Feel A Thousand Miseries Till We Are Lucky Enough To Feel Misery.

If A Man Is Not Rising Upward To Be An Angel, Depend On It, He Is Sinking Downward To Be A Devil.

Forth From His Dark And Lonely Hiding-place, (portentous Sight!) The Owlet Atheism, Sailing On Obscene Wings Athwart The Noon, Drops His Blue-fringed Lids, And Holds Them Close, And Hooting At The Glorious Sun In Heaven, Cries Out, ''where Is It?''

No Voice; But Oh - The Silence Sank Like Music On My Heart.

A Rogue Is A Roundabout Fool.