The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.
The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbed sense to steel it.
Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.
How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they
When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain".
How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.