Sir, What Is Poetry? Why,

I Am A Hardened And Shameless Tea Drinker, Who Has, For Twenty Years, Diluted His Meals With Only The Infusion Of This Fascinating Plant; Whose Kettle Has Scarcely Time To Cool; Who With Tea Amuses The Evening, With Tea Solaces The Midnight, And, With Tea, Welcomes The Morning.

The Violence Of War Admits No Distinction; The Lance, That Is Lifted At Guilt And Power, Will Sometimes Fall On Innocence And Gentleness.

Unintelligible Language Is A Lantern Without A Light.

It Is Better That Some Should Be Unhappy Rather Than That None Should Be Happy, Which Would Be The Case In A General State Of Equality.

Sorrow Is The Mere Rust Of The Soul. Activity Will Cleanse And Brighten It.