We Are Suffering From Too Much Sarcasm.

The Prey Of Fear, He, Always Curtailed, Extinguished, Thwarted By The Dusk, Work Partly Done, Says To The Alternating Blaze, "again The Sun! Anew Each Day; And New And New And New, That Comes Into And Steadies My Soul."

Poetry Is A Peerless Proficiency Of The Imagination.

In A Poem The Excitement Has To Maintain Itself. I Am Governed By The Pull Of The Sentence As The Pull Of A Fabric Is Governed By Gravity.

You're Not Free Until You've Been Made Captive By Supreme Belief.

As For Butterflies, I Can Hardly Conceive Of One's Attending Upon You; But To Question The Congruence Of The Complement Is Vain, If It Exists.