That Which Is Creative Must Create Itself.

You Might Curb Your Magnanimity, And Be More Of An Artist, And Load Every Rift Of Your Subject With Ore.

Adieu! Adieu! Thy Plaintive Anthem Fades Past The Near Meadows, Over The Still Stream, Up The Hill-side; And Now 'tis Buried Deep In The Next Valley-glades: Was It A Vision, Or A Waking Dream? Fled Is That Music:--do I Wake Or Sleep?

I Have Good Reason To Be Content, For Thank God I Can Read And Perhaps Understand Shakespeare To His Depths.

Death Is Life's High Meed.

How Beautiful, If Sorrow Had Not Made Sorrow More Beautiful Than Beauty's Self.