Father, O Father! What Do

The Busy Bee Has No Time For Sorrow.

Harmony Of Colouring Is Destructive Of Art? It Is Like The Smile Of A Fool.

Like A Fiend In A Cloud, With Howling Woe, After Night I Do Crowd, And With Night Will Go; I Turn My Back To The East, From Whence Comforts Have Increased; For Light Doth Seize My Brain With Frantic Pain.

One Power Alone Makes A Poet: Imagination. The Divine Vision.

Life Delights In Life.