Blessed The Geniuses Who Know / That

The Sweet Air Coming Into Your House On A Fine Day, From Water Etched With Waves As Formal As The Scales On A Fish.

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.

If Technique Is Of No Interest To A Writer, I Doubt That The Writer Is An Artist.

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

... We Do Not Admire What We Cannot Understand.