I Will Not Say That

But A Day Must Come When The Fire Of Youth Will Be Quenched In My Veins, When Winter Will Dwell In My Heart, When His Snow Flakes Will Whiten My Locks, And His Mists Will Dim My Eyes. Then My Friends Will Lie In Their Lonely Grave, And I Alone Will Remain Like A Solitary Stalk Forgotten By The Reaper.

You Cannot Feed The Hungry On Statistics.

He Is Noble Who Both Feels And Acts Nobly.

Lyrical Poetry Is Much The Same An Every Age, As The Songs Of The Nightingales In Every Spring-time.

The Swan, Like The Soul Of The Poet, By The Dull World Is Ill Understood.