Poetry, That Is To Say The Poetic,

Men Are Monopolists Of "stars, Garters, Buttons And Other Shining Baubles"- Unfit To Be The Guardians Of Another Person's Happiness.

The Mind Is An Enchanting Thing.

The Self Does Not Realize Itself Most Fully When Self-realization Is Its Most Constant Aim.

What Is Our Innocence, What Is Our Guilt? All Are Naked, None Is Safe.

Hindered Characters / Seldom Have Mothers / In Irish Stories, But They All Have Grandmothers.