We Have Woven A Web, You And

Death Is Life's High Meed.

No One Can Usurp The Heights... But Those To Whom The Miseries Of The World Are Misery, And Will Not Let Them Rest.

The Roaring Of The Wind Is My Wife And The Stars Through The Window Pane Are My Children. The Mighty Abstract Idea I Have Of Beauty In All Things Stifles The More Divided And Minute Domestic Happiness.

To Bear All Naked Truths, And To Envisage Circumstance, All Calm, That Is The Top Of Sovereignty

If Poetry Does Not Come As Naturally As Leaves To A Tree, Then It Better Not Come At All.