I Consider Poetry Very Subordinate

The Intense Atom Glows A Moment, Then Is Quenched In A Most Cold Repose.

Worse Than A Bloody Hand Is A Hard Heart.

Love! Dearest, Sweetest Power! How Much Are We Indebted To Thee! How Much Superior Are Even Thy Miseries To The Pleasures Which Arise From Other Sources!

Music, When Soft Voices Die Vibrates In The Memory.

Necessity, Thou Mother Of The World!