Poetry Is The Attempt Which

Virtue Is Like Health: The Harmony Of The Whole Man.

The Essence Of Humor Is Sensibility; Warm, Tender Fellow-feeling With All Forms Of Existence.

To Me The Universe Was All Void Of Life, Of Purpose, Of Volition, Even Of Hostility; It Was One Huge, Dead, Immeasurable Steam-engine, Rolling On, In Its Dead Indifference, To Grind Me Limb From Limb. Oh Vast Gloomy, Solitary Golgotha, And Mill Of Death! Why Was The Living Banished Thither Companionless, Conscious? Why, If There Is No Devil; Nay, Unless The Devil Is Your God?

Everywhere In Life, The True Question Is Not What We Gain, But What We Do.

O Poor Mortals, How Ye Make This Earth Bitter For Each Other.