I Could Never Hate Anyone I Knew.

It Is Well If The Good Man Himself Does Not Feel His Devotions A Little Clouded, Those Foggy Sensuous Steams Mingling With And Polluting The Pure Altar Surface.

If There Be A Regal Solitude, It Is A Sick-bed. How The Patient Lords It There!

We All Have Some Taste Or Other, Of Too Ancient A Date To Admit Of Our Remembering It Was An Acquired One.

I Have Something More To Do Than To Feel.

The True Poet Dreams Being Awake.