Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

I shall be but a shrimp of an author.

He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.