What I Have Left Is From My

Our Souls Sit Close And Silently Within, And Their Own Web From Their Own Entrails Spin; And When Eyes Meet Far Off, Our Sense Is Such, That, Spider-like, We Feel The Tenderest Touch.

If We From Wealth To Poverty Descend, Want Gives To Know The Flatterer From The Friend.

Dancing Is The Poetry Of The Foot.

Fiction Is Of The Essence Of Poetry As Well As Of Painting; There Is A Resemblance In One Of Human Bodies, Things, And Actions Which Are Not Real, And In The Other Of A True Story By Fiction.

Blown Roses Hold Their Sweetness To The Last.