Whatever Is The Object Of

All Poetry Is Supposed To Be Instructive But In An Unnoticeable Manner; It Is Supposed To Make Us Aware Of What It Would Be Valuable To Instruct Ourselves In; We Must Deduce The Lesson On Our Own, Just As With Life.

Just As, Out Of Habit, One Consults A Run-down Clock As Though It Were Still Going, So Too One May Look At The Face Of A Beautiful Woman As Though He Still Loved Her.

He Who Can Not Learn To Love Must Flatter.

Music Is So Elevated That It Is Beyond The Reach Of Intellect And There Flows From It An Influence Which Is All-potent, And Which Noone Can Explain.

The Worst Is That The Very Hardest Thinking Will Not Bring Thoughts. They Must Come Like Good Children Of God And Cry, "here We Are." You Expend Effort And Energy Thinking Hard. Then, After You Have Given Up, They Come Sauntering In With Their Hands In Their Pockets. If The Effort Had Not Been Made To Open The Door, However, Who Knows When They Could Have Come.