Night's Deepest Gloom Is But

Oh For A Seat In Some Poetic Nook, Just Hid With Trees And Sparkling With A Brook!

O Scaly, Slippery, Wet, Swift, Staring Wights, What Is 't Ye Do? What Life Lead? Eh, Dull Goggles? How Do Ye Vary Your Vile Days And Nights? How Pass Your Sundays? Are Ye Still But Joggles In Ceaseless Wash? Still Nought But Gapes And Bites, And Drinks, And Stares, Diversified With Boggles.

The Perfection Of Conversational Intercourse Is When The Breeding Of High Life Is Animated By The Fervor Of Genius.

For The Qualities Of Sheer Wit And Humor, Swift Had No Superior, Ancient Or Modern.

The Very Greatest Genius, After All, Is Not The Greatest Thing In The World, Any More Than The Greatest City In The World Is The Country Or The Sky. It Is The Concentration Of Some Of Its Greatest Powers, But It Is Not The Greatest Diffusion Of Its Might. It Is Not The Habit Of Its Success, The Stability Of Its Sereneness.