I should not dare to call my soul my own.

Who so loves believes the impossible.

OF writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,- Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it Long after he has ceased to love you, just To hold together what he was and is.

God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame.

Gaze up at the stars knowing that I see the same sky and wish the same sweet dreams.

You're something between a dream and a miracle.

The critics could never mortify me out of heart - because I love poetry for its own sake, - and, tho' with no stoicism and some ambition, care more for my poems than for my poetic reputation.