That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech.

Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.

To be perfectly original one should think much and read little, and this is impossible, for one must have read before one has learnt to think.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like scorpion girt by fire; So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death.

I cannot describe to you the despairing sensation of trying to do something for a man who seems incapable or unwilling to do anything further for himself.

Muse of the many twinkling feet, whose charms are now extending up from legs to arms.