Not Drunk Is He Who

But Still My Fancy Wanders Free Through That Which Might Have Been.

My Thoughts By Night Are Often Filled With Visions False As Fair: For In The Past Alone, I Build My Castles In The Air.

The Critic Does His Utmost To Blight Genius In Its Infancy; That Which Rises In Spite Of Him He Will Not See; And Then He Complains Of The Decline Of Literature.

Names Are Changed More Readily Than Doctrines, And Doctrines More Readily Than Ceremonies.

The Waste Of Plenty Is The Resource Of Scarcity.