The Mind Is An Enchanting

Conscious Writing Can Be The Death Of Poetry.

I See No Reason For Calling My Work Poetry Except That There Is No Other Category In Which To Put It.

Superior People Never Make Long Visits.

The Prey Of Fear, He, Always Curtailed, Extinguished, Thwarted By The Dusk, Work Partly Done, Says To The Alternating Blaze, "again The Sun! Anew Each Day; And New And New And New, That Comes Into And Steadies My Soul."

Your Thorns Are The Best Part Of You.