That willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith.

Memory, bosom-spring of joy.

The once red leaf, the last of its clan, that dances as often as dance it can.

There is small chance of truth at the goal, where there is not childlike humility at the starting-post.

A man of maxims only is like a Cyclops with one eye, and that in the back of his head.

And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

Poetry: the best words in the best order.