Sad Patience, Too Near Neighbour To Despair.

Nature Herself Seems, I Say, To Take The Pen Out Of His Hand, And To Write For Him With Her Own Bare, Sheer, Penetrating Power.

For Poetry The Idea Is Everything; The Rest Is A World Of Illusion.

A Wanderer Is Man From His Birth. He Was Born In A Ship On The Breast Of The River Of Time.

The Kings Of Modern Thought Are Dumb.

The Best Poetry Will Be Found To Have A Power Of Forming, Sustaining, And Delighting Us, As Nothing Else Can.