If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?

Pain has an element of blank

The Soul selects her own Society.

The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy.

Nothing more do I ask than to share with you the ecstasy and sacrament of my life.

Knew I how to pray, to intercede for your [broken] Foot were intuitive - but I am but a Pagan.

Is Bliss then, such Abyss, I must not put my foot amiss For fear I spoil my shoe? I'd rather suit my foot Than save my Boot -- For yet to buy another Pair is possible, At any store -- But Bliss, is sold just once. The Patent lost None buy it any more --