The Mind Is An Enchanting Thing.

Any Writer Overwhelmingly Honest About Pleasing Himself Is Almost Sure To Please Others.

Not Till The Poets Among Us Can Be "literalists Of The Imagination"-above Insolence And Triviality And Can Present For Inspection, "imaginary Gardens With Real Toads In Them." Shall We Have It.

Only Imagination That Towers Can Reproduce Evanescence And Render Rigidity Flexible.

Poetry, That Is To Say The Poetic, Is A Primal Necessity.

You Are Not Male Nor Female, But A Plan Deep-set Within The Heart Of Man.