O For Ten Years, That I May

We Hate Poetry That Has A Palpable Design Upon Us - And If We Do Not Agree, Seems To Put Its Hand In Its Breeches Pocket. Poetry Should Be Great & Unobtrusive, A Thing Which Enters Into One's Soul, And Does Not Startle It Or Amaze It With Itself But With Its Subject. - How Beautiful Are The Retired Flowers! How Would They Lose Their Beauty Were They To Throng Into The Highway Crying Out, "admire Me I Am A Violet! Dote Upon Me I Am A Primrose!"

To Hope "when By My Solitary Hearth I Sit, And Hateful Thoughts Enwrap My Soul In Gloom; When No Fair Dreams Before My 'mind's Eye' Flit, And The Bare Heath Of Life Presents No Bloom; Sweet Hope, Ethereal Balm Upon Me Shed, And Wave Thy Silver Pinions O'er My Head.

Their Woes Gone By, And Both To Heaven Upflown, To Bow For Gratitude Before Jove's Throne.

The Excellence Of Every Art Is Its Intensity, Capable Of Making All Disagreeables Evaporate, From Their Being In Close Relationship With Beauty And Truth.

To The Very Last, He [napoleon] Had A Kind Of Idea; That, Namely, Of La Carrière Ouverte Aux Talents, - The Tools To Him That Can Handle Them.