And The Choice Goes By Forever 'twixt

How Little Inventiveness There Is In Man, Grave Copier Of Copies.

Metaphor Is No Argument, Though It Be Sometimes The Gunpowder To Drive One Home, And Imbed It In The Memory.

No Mud Can Soil Us But The Mud We Throw.

An Angel Stood And Met My Gaze, Through The Low Doorway Of My Tent; The Tent Is Struck, The Vision Stays; I Only Know She Came And Went.

The Eye Is The Notebook Of The Poet.