A Man's Style Is His

Murder In The Murderer Is No Such Ruinous Thought As Poets And Romancers Will Have It; It Does Not Unsettle Him, Or Fright Him From His Ordinary Notice Of Trifles; It Is An Act Quite Easy To Be Contemplated.

Our Desires Presage The Capacities Within Us; They Are Harbingers Of What We Shall Be Able To Accomplish. What We Can Do And Want To Do Is Projected In Our Imagination, Quite Outside Ourselves, And Into The Future. We Are Attracted To What Is Already Ours In Secret. Thus Passionate Anticipation Transforms What Is Indeed Possible Into Dreamt-for Reality.

Want Is A Growing Giant Whom The Coat Of Have Was Never Large Enough To Cover.

We Are Made Aware That Magnitude Of Material Things Is Relative, And All Objects Shrink And Expand To Serve The Passion Of The Poet. Thus, In His Sonnets, The Lays Of Birds, The Scents And Dyes Of Flowers, He Finds To Be The Shadow Of His Beloved; Time, Which Keeps Her From Him, Is His Chest; The Suspicion She Has Awakened, Is Her Ornament

How Many Attractions For Us Have Our Passing Fellows In The Streets, Both Male And Female, Which Our Ethics Forbid Us To Express, Which Yet Infuse So Much Pleasure Into Life. A Lovely Child, A Handsome Youth, A Beautiful Girl, A Heroic Man, A Maternal Woman, A Venerable Old Man, Charm Us, Though Strangers, And We Cannot Say So, Or Look At Them But For A Moment.