The Human Body Is A Magazine Of

Do What We Can, Summer Will Have Its Flies.

[w]e Pity Our Fathers For Dying Before Steam And Galvanism, Sulphuric Ether And Ocean Telegraphs, Photograph And Spectrograph Arrived, As Cheated Out Of Their Human Estate.

For Poetry Was All Written Before Time Was, And Whenever We Are So Finely Organized That We Can Penetrate Into That Region Where The Air Is Music, We Hear Those Primal Warblings, And Attempt To Write Them Down, But We Lose Ever And Anon A Word, A Verse, And Substitute Something Of Our Own, And Thus Miswrite The Poem.

The Senses Interfere Everywhere, And Mix Their Own Structure With All They Report Of.

Neither You Nor The World Knows What You Can Do Until You Have Tried.