Even With One Companion Ecstasy

I Hold With The Old-fashioned Criticism That Browning Is Not Really A Poet, That He Has All The Gifts But The One Needful And The Pearls Without The String; Rather One Should Say Raw Nuggets And Rough Diamonds.

I Wake And Feel The Fell Of Dark, Not Day. What Hours, O What Black Hours We Have Spent This Night!

Your Personal Boundaries Protect The Inner Core Of Your Identity And Your Right To Choices.

And For All This, Nature Is Never Spent; There Lives The Dearest Freshness Deep Down Things; And Though The Last Lights Off The Black West Went Oh, Morning, At The Brown Brink Eastward, Springs— Because The Holy Ghost Over The Bent World Broods With Warm Breast And With Ah! Bright Wings.

Beauty Is A Relation, And The Apprehension Of It A Comparison.