They Fail, And They Alone, Who Have

What Is A Day To An Immortal Soul! A Breath, No More.

The Laurels Of An Orator Who Is Not A Master Of Literary Art Wither Quickly.

Turn On Its Noiseless Hinges, Delicate Sleep!

Great Thoughts In Crude, Unshapely Verse Set Forth Lose Half Their Preciousness, And Ever Must, Unless The Diamond With Its Own Rich Dust Be Cut And Polished, It Seems Little Worth.

The Young Girl In My Story Is To Be As Sensitive To Praise As A Prism Is To Light. Whenever Anybody Praises Her She Breaks Into Colors.