Gratitude, In Itself, Is Heaven.

Oh! Why Was I Born With A Different Face? Why Was I Not Born Like The Rest Of My Race? When I Look,each One Starts! When I Speak, I Offend; Then Im Silent & Passive & Lose Every Friend. Then My Verse I Dishonour, My Pictures Despise, My Person Degrade & My Temper Chastise; And The Pen Is My Terror, The Pencil My Shame; All My Talents I Bury, And Dead Is My Fame. Im Either Too Low Or Too Highly Prized; When Elate I M Envy'd, When Meek Im Despis'd

The Reason Milton Wrote In Fetters When He Wrote Of Angels And God, And At Liberty When Of Devils And Hell, Is Because He Was A True Poet And Of The Devil's Party Without Knowing It.

He Who Sees The Infinite In All Things Sees God.

Mere Enthusiasm Is The All In All... / Passion And Expression Are Beauty Itself.

The Ancient Poets Animated All Sensible Objects With Gods Or Geniuses, Calling Them By The Names And Adorning Them With The Properties Of Woods, Rivers, Mountains, Lakes, Cities, Nations, And Whatever Their Enlarged & Numerous Senses Could Perceive.