The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

If soul my look and body touch, Which is the more blest?

But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

What the world's million lips are searching for, must be substantial somewhere.

What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident?

What shall I do for pretty girls Now my old bawd is dead?

rhetoric is will doing the work of imagination.