Enough is so vast a sweetness I suppose it never occurs.
Why should we censure Othello when the Criterion Lover says, "Thou shalt have no other Gods before Me"?
A charm invests a face Imperfectly beheld,— The lady dare not lift her veil For fear it be dispelled. But peers beyond her mesh, And wishes, and denies,— Lest interview annul a want That image satisfies.
To multiply the harbors does not reduce the sea.
I must go in, the fog is rising.
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?