Failure Is, In A Sense, The Highway

I Cannot See What Flowers Are At My Feet, Nor What Soft Incense Hangs Upon The Boughs, But, In Embalmed Darkness, Guess Each Sweet.

I Almost Wish We Were Butterflies And Liv'd But Three Summer Days - Three Such Days With You I Could Fill With More Delight Than Fifty Common Years Could Ever Contain.

I Would Jump Down Etna For Any Public Good - But I Hate A Mawkish Popularity.

He Ne'er Is Crowned With Immortality Who Fears To Follow Where Airy Voices Lead.

Literary Men Are . . . A Perpetual Priesthood.