Even When I'm Railed At, I Get

Poetry Is A Whim Of Nature In Her Lighter Moods; It Requires Nothing But Its Own Madness And, Lacking That, It Becomes A Soundless Cymbal, A Belfry Without A Bell.

Age Has A Good Mind And Sorry Shanks.

And There Is Quite A Different Sort Of Conversation Around A Fire Than There Is In The Shadow Of A Beech Tree.... Four Dry Logs Have In Them All The Circumstance Necessary To A Conversation Of Four Or Five Hours, With Chestnuts On The Plate And A Jug Of Wine Between The Legs. Yes, Let Us Love Winter, For It Is The Spring Of Genius.

What Evil Is There In Seeing A Man Possess A Woman? Why, The Beasts Would Be More Free Than We! It Seems To Me That That Which Is Given Us By Nature For Our Own Preservation Ought To Be Worn Round The Neck As A Pendant And In The Hat For A Medal.

A High Heart Ought To Bear Calamities And Not Flee Them, Since In Bearing Them Appears The Grandeur Of The Mind And In Fleeing Them The Cowardice Of The Heart.