It is a terrible thought, that nothing is ever forgotten; that not an oath is ever uttered that does not continue to vibrate through all times, in the wide spreading current of sound; that not a prayer is lisped, that its record is not to be found st
There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.
Folly ends where genuine hope begins.
To follow foolish precedents, and wink With both our eyes, is easier than to think.
Made poetry a mere mechanic art.
All we behold is miracle.