Poetry Is The Breath Of Beauty.

I Loved My Friend For His Gentleness, His Candor, His Good Repute, His Freedom Even From My Own Livelier Manner, His Calm And Reasonable Kindness. It Was Not Any Particular Talent That Attracted Me To Him, Or I Anything Striking Whatsoever. I Should Say In One Word, It Was His Goodness.

A Dog Can Have A Friend; He Has Affections And Character, He Can Enjoy Equally The Field And The Fireside; He Dreams, He Caresses, He Propitiates; He Offends, And Is Pardoned; He Stands By You In Adversity; He Is A Good Fellow.

The Drama Is Not A Mere Copy Of Nature, Not A Facsimile. It Is The Free Running Hand Of Genius, Under The Impression Of Its Liveliest Wit Or Most Passionate Impulses, A Thousand Times Adorning Or Feeling All As It Goes; And You Must Read It, As The Healthy Instinct Of Audiences Almost Always Does, If The Critics Will Let Them Alone, With A Grain Of Allowance, And A Tendency To Go Away With As Much Of It For Use As Is Necessary, And The Rest For The Luxury Of Laughter, Pity, Or Poetical Admiration.

Anglers Boast Of The Innocence Of Their Pastime; Yet It Puts Fellow-creatures To The Torture. They Pique Themselves On Their Meditative Faculties; And Yet Their Only Excuse Is A Want Of Thought.

May Exalting And Humanizing Thoughts Forever Accompany Me, Making Me Confident Without Pride, And Modest Without Servility.