Evil Then Results From Imperfection.

Look On The Bee Upon The Wing 'mong Flowers; How Brave, How Bright His Life! Then Mark, Him Hiv'd, Cramp'd, Cringing In His Self-built, Social Cell, Thus It Is In The World-hive; Most Where Men Lie Deep In Cities As In Drifts.

A Poet Not In Love Is Out At Sea; He Must Have A Lay-figure.

He Who Has Most Of Heart Knows Most Of Sorrow.

The Long Days Are No Happier Than The Short Ones.

O, There Is Naught On Earth Worth Being Known But God And Our Own Souls!