We read Robert Browning's poetry. Here we needed no guidance from the professor: the poems themselves were enough.
Nothing happens unless first we dream.
Poetry is a section of river-fog and moving boat-lights, delivered between bridges and whistles, so one says, 'Oh!' and another, 'How?'
By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.
Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
For we know when a nation goes down and never comes back, when a society or a civilization perishes, one condition may always be found. They forgot where they came from. They lost sight of what brought them along.