We Go To Europe To

If A Man's Eye Is On The Eternal, His Intellect Will Grow.

For Everything You Gain, You Lose Something.

But A Compassion For That Which Is Not And Cannot Be Useful And Lovely, Is Degrading And Futile.

Love Should Make Joy; But Our Benevolence Is Unhappy. Our Sunday-schools, And Churches, And Pauper-societies Are Yokes To The Neck. We Pain Ourselves To Please Nobody.

For Poetry Was All Written Before Time Was, And Whenever We Are So Finely Organized That We Can Penetrate Into That Region Where The Air Is Music, We Hear Those Primal Warblings, And Attempt To Write Them Down, But We Lose Ever And Anon A Word, A Verse, And Substitute Something Of Our Own, And Thus Miswrite The Poem.