I Would Like More Sisters,

If I Feel Physically As If The Top Of My Head Were Taken Off, I Know That Is Poetry.

Will You Tell Me My Fault, Frankly As To Yourself, For I Had Rather Wince, Than Die. Men Do Not Call The Surgeon To Commend The Bone, But To Set It, Sir.

Sweet Skepticism Of The Heart That Knows And Does Not Know And Tosses Like A Fleet Of Balm Affronted By The Snow.

All Things Do Go A-courting, In Earth, Or Sea, Or Air, God Hath Made Nothing Single But Thee In His World So Fair.

Drunkards Of Summer Are Quite As Frequent As Drunkards Of Wine.