On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose, Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend . . . He reached a middle height, and at the stars, Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank. Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law.

As we to the brutes, poets are to us.

Poetry is talking on tiptoe.

The season of love is the carnival of egoism and it brings a touchstone to our natures.

Sentimentalists are they who seek to enjoy without incurring the Immense Debtorship for a thing done.

Lowly, with a broken neck, The crocus lays her cheek to mire.

Faith works miracles. At least it allows time for them.